


Freedom

by Virodeil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Thor (Movies)
Genre: A journey of slow healing, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - what if, Alternate Universe – Twins, Amnesiac Harry, Body Exploration, Body Modification, Broken Harry, Character Study, Family, Friendship, Gen, Gender Confusion, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Nudity, Other, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, POV Third Person Limited, Present Tense, Temporary Amnesia, Wrongful Imprisonment, family baggage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26761861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virodeil/pseuds/Virodeil
Summary: In the middle of 1995, the life of one Harry James Potter officially ends. In the middle of 1996, the survival of the forgotten teenage Azkaban prisoner in cell number 13 is ultimately terminated. In the middle of 1997, the title of heir to the throne of an alien realm is officially taken by a tiny, semi-amnesiac child. – It all means change. It all means freedom. But for whom?
Relationships: Laufey (Marvel) & Harry Potter
Kudos: 91
Collections: A Labyrinth of Fics, Gem gens and character study, The Land of Ice and Snow, Yubi Great Crossovers





	Freedom

Story notes:  
1. **Markers:** Memories and thoughts are italicised. Untranslated bits of other languages are bolded. English-translated dialogues are underlined.  
2. **Premise:** Cornelius Fudge did more than squawking and denying Voldemort’s return, at the end of Book 4, and Amos Diggory was more actively vengeful.  
3. **Fandoms:** The Harry Potter series (up to _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ ), and also a tiny bit of Marvel Cinematic Universe.  
4. **Warnings:** This story is a lengthy one-shot that explores a handful of sensitive topics. Please take care (in all aspects) when reading. There is also no intentional character bashing of anyone, but it may look thus in a few points.

Started on: 1st October 2018 at 07:17 PM  
Finished on: 2nd October 2020 at 07:30 AM

**O-O-O-O**

_“I’m sorry, my boy. I tried my best.”_

_“You killed Ced, you monster!”_

_“Bow to death, Harry.”_

_“Please! Not Harry! Have mercy!”_

_“Harry James Potter, you are hereby sentenced to life imprisonment at Azkaban for the homicide of Cedric Diggory, slander, telling untruths to the court of justice, subversive actions, and sadition.“_

_“Please! Not Azkaban! I didn’t lie! Get away! Get away! This is wrong. No, let me explain! Expecto Patronum! **No**!”_

_“Harry!”_

_“Lily, it’s him! Take Harry and go!”_

_“Mum? Dad? Let me go with you!”_

_“The boy is clearly delusional.”_

_“All the fame and adoration have clearly gone to his head.”_

_“God, Merlin, whatever, if you are there, please let me die.”_

A short, skinny child twists about on a filthy, pungent thing that barely deserves the name “bed pallet,” with eyes screwed shut and face scrunched up. Soft, raw whimpers and whines escape their throat at times, bypassing their chapped, bluish white lips altogether, in accompaniment to the harsh, rattling pants blowing through their nostrils. Their gender is hard to guess at, through the far oversized and tatty, filthy rags clinging to their emaciated frame in place of their clothing. Their age, likewise, given their small stature but nearly bald head, with chunks of hair torn off and scattered everywhere in the two-times-two-metre space.

The child’s “room” is separated from the dirty, dank, narrow stone lane outside by a set of sturdy iron bars that, fortunately or unfortunately, don’t show any sign of rust or weakness in the cold, humid air. Despair permeates the dim, stifling atmosphere both inside the “room” and outside of it, flavoured every so often by shouts, screams, sobs, roars, squeals and delirious rants from the occupants of the other “rooms” in this pit. It gets particularly harsh when a couple of ratty black-hooded cloaks drift along the lane, patrolling, drawing in rattling breaths that make the air even colder and thicker with hopelessness.

And they patrol _often_.

This particular pit, after all, is the place where the Wizarding world of Great Britain stows away its most dangerous criminals: Located on the bottommost level of the Azkaban fortress in a lonely isle far off-shore in the North Sea, patrolled day and night by the Dementors, with only one way out that is guarded _constantly_ by _more_ Dementors, it is arguably the “safest” place to dump these individuals in and forget about them.

And one “Harry James Potter,” as the crude iron plack hung on a horizontal bar outside the child’s cell proclaims, is counted as one of them.

It is a year today that the child – a teenager, really – has been stored here. The Dementors care for little, but they know much – more than the puny humans that seek to use them suspect, at any rate. And today, they celebrate the anniversary of this child’s coming into their embrace in the only way they know and are permitted… for now….

They congregate on the lane outside the child’s cell, drawing as much helplessness, hopelessness and misery from that cell and its neighbouring “rooms” with relish. “Harry James Potter” has many, many, many miserable thoughts and memories, though little by way of happiness. But then, despair is the breeding ground, while happiness is just the food….

And in the tiny, horrible cubical the child is stored in, “Harry James Potter” twists harder, sobbing, as the Dementors, in the effort to suck _everything_ from them without going over to perform the Kiss, break a layer that, in another path, would never have been broken until they were dead and remembered all that they had been.

_A great, jarring impact while cocooned in the dark. A great, jarring **agony** transmitted from somebody else. And it repeats again, and again._

_“Take it, you podgy beast. They said you are **pregnant**. Hah! No child will be born from those layers of **fat** , you ergi thing!” the causer of the horrible trauma bleets, as if from afar._

_“Hold on, Fié. We will be there soon. Hold your children inside just a little bit longer. Come, Loé, Loí, do not harass your amma, please.”_

_“Anga… please… I… I can-not….”_

_Pain. Pain pain pain pain pain._

_“My children…. Where are my children? Loptr! Loki….”_

_Cold. Dry. **Separated**. There was one other in the cocoon…. `Where is that other one? Where is the cocoon?`_

_Bright. Unfamiliar. `Why is it not dark? Where is the cocoon?`_

_Something colder encases the fragile new body, colder than the new environment it has been spat so rudely and painfully into. Cocoon, but not **the** cocoon. `I cannot **breathe**!`_

“Amma! Amma!” the bluish white lips of the child crack open, at last, after so long. They mew in despair, in desperate love to the cocoon that meant safety, to the crooning songs that reverberated in their very being and one other, always one other. They don’t know what the word pertains to, but it meant safety in the cocoon with that one other, _and they **desperately** need it, **right now**_.

On the other side of the bars, the Dementors stir in excitement.

Their excitement only grows as their brethren, those who guard the only way in and out, glide aside to admit a tall, skeletally thin figure wrapped in a black robe. This figure was their ally before his defeat more than fourteen years ago. This figure, wreaking with death and the despair of both his allies and enemies, provided them with regular meals in large quantities.

“Join me,” the figure hisses, and the Dementors flock to him eagerly.

High-pitched, chilling laughter fills the dimly lit pit, triggering a cacophony of please, adoration, terror and delirious muttering.

Stowed in one of the cells, a child who no longer knows who they are sobs harder.

_“Not Harry! Please not Harry! Kill me instead. Please not Harry! Have mercy!”_

_“Loptr! Loki!”_

The visitor ambles into the pit fearlessly, as if unaffected by the Dementors…. Or maybe he is, indeed, unaffected, for he fancies himself the greatest, darkest wizard in the world, one who has seen much and done much in places even dumb animals fear to tread. The Dementors crowd round him as though a macabre honourguard; fitting for one such as he, the future ruler of the world. The patches of bone-white skin unconcealed by his robe and hooded cloak, also the soft footfalls of his boots, are the only indications that he is not a Dementor himself.

He has other agendas to execute. But here, he only has three, and a nice timeframe to do them. After all, no human warden has survived his silent raid upstairs, and the wardens here are all Dementors who have just repledged their loyalty to him.

“Harry James Potter,” he reads the plack outside the child’s “room” out loud, then lets out another high-pitched, chilling laugh. “ _Pathetic_. This is how the Boy Who Lived is defeated…. I shall have to reward Lucius for his manoeuvring.”

He strokes his yew wand affectionately with one long finger, and unlocks the bars with the other hand with the key he… _retrieved_ … from upstairs. His prophecied nemesis is going to die at his feet, as is proper. There will be no escape for Harry Potter this time, unlike during his rebirth a year ago today.

“Avada Kedavra,” he intones, and a familiar jet of green light rumbles out from the end of his wand, striking the pitiful lump of filthy, stinking skin-on-bones twisting about on the floor right on the forehead, right on the mark that the same curse left almost fourteen years ago.

He doubles over in pain right afterwards, as if his soul had been wrenched apart _yet again_ , as if he had been in the process of making a Horcrux. But when he recovers, when he casts a detection spell, the heap of rags on the floor shows no soul, whether his or the boy’s.

He doubles over again, this time in cascading mirth that shows in his cackles.

The child doesn’t hear it. They don’t feel the roughness and dampness and filth of the fortress’ stone floor, either, as cold, rotting hands drag their body outside of their “room,” outside of the pit, out to the courtyard that faces the dock. They don’t hear the jeers heaped on them by black-robed, white-masked figures out there, nor do they feel it as their body is dumped into the smallest, worst boat tethered to the pier and set out to the sea, in hope that it will soon sink and bring their body with it.

All that they feel is a nice, clean, cool air in darkness that doesn’t mean pain, desperation, fear and misery. It doesn’t mean confinement, either, as they can freely float everywhere.

_Freedom_. It has a nice ring to it. A true one at that, as if it could be their name at one time.

They don’t remember much, or clearly. They don’t even remember their name, or their age, or even if they are a he, a she, or have no gender, no sex. The situation doesn’t bother them, though. Little bothers them, now. There is the red-haired, green-eyed woman. There is also the wet cocoon that is not the least confining, and also their faithful companion in it, and it is enough for them.

They have the memories of their mother, and it is enough for them.

Something breaks, far, far away, and something in them shifts in response, but it doesn’t bother them. Drifting in vague, comfortable contentment, they float aimlessly here and there in the soothing darkness.

Until, that is, they got caught in a pinprick of energy that doesn’t belong in their new reality, and they find themself displeasingly _aware_ ; awake and bombarded by many, many sensations and scents and feelings. It is only a long, long time afterwards that they feel coherent enough to truly recognise _and acknowledge_ all the information that has been dumped on them.

They’re laid out in a small, wooden, open-topped, narrow-angled-bottommed container, and the said container is drifting in a huge, deep expanse of cold saltwater. Waves made by the saltwater rock the container about, and cold sprays from the waves’ regular impact against the old, mouldy wood add to the disgusting plethora of smells the small, skeletal body inside sports. The said body feels pretty stiff, as if they haven’t moved for a very long while indeed, but it feels quite energised as well; light as it has never been, a small part of their mind acknowledges. The damp, chilly wind that occasionally blows across the open top of the container carries with it the sharp, clean scent of ice, but also a less sharp and more complicated one that is novel to all parts of them.

The latter intrigues them, as all new things do. It gives them ample motivation to recover, if not patience. Unfortunately, it is quite a while yet before they can move the ends of their limbs, then further and further until all four appendages are as limber as could be, but at least it _happens_.

The first thing that they do is to test the said appendages thoroughly.

By lifting themself up into a seated position.

Which happens to be done in a very _un_ fortuitous moment.

The wooden container, which seemed to be very close to breaking already, in addition to being quite old and uncared-for, wobbles hard on the sudden action, spins once, got caught in a surface current, and crashes _into pieces_ against something hard that smells entirely of ice.

Flailing, the hapless passenger is sent into the ever-moving water. Burning cold and lack of air suffocate them, so their survival instincts kick in.

And suddenly, everything becomes rather _warm_ … and they can _breathe_.

This acute change, in addition to the light-headedness caused by the combo of abrupt elevation and crash, disorients the former drowning victim so heavily that they aren’t aware of any hostile interest anywhere nearby.

Not until a set of strong, needle-sharp teeth clamp on two of their limbs, that is.

they scream and lash out, _growing_ an icy shield all over their skin and pushing the teeth-clamper away through the tangible and intangible ways.

They manage to clamber up onto the thing that ended the life of the wooden container, after that, using the sharp ends of their limbs, though sans the filthy, smelly things they were clad in. Then, for the first time since they awakened, they open their eyes and look round.

Everything is so bright and detailed, sharp as a part of them remembers it _never_ was. The dark sky is full of blinking pinpricks and circles of light in interesting shapes. The humongous chunk of ice beneath their naked rump is white but glows subtly with bluish green and greenish blue. The horizon visible to their eyes shows a beautiful expanse of undulating silvery grey….

Their other senses are just as poignant as when they firstly woke up, too. The half-salty damp air caresses their exposed skin with comfortable warmth, and they can _taste_ salt in it when they open their mouth and extend their tongue. The currents beneath the huge chunk of ice criss-cross chaotically, when they extend their intangible limb towards the wavy water, and the ice is riding on the biggest one of them all. There is nobody else out here, though, at least nobody sentient and of their kind, and it makes them inexplicably lonely as they never felt before.

Drowsiness drapes itself over them as gently as the wind caresses their skin, as their senses buoy them in a cacophony of nature that nonetheless demands nothing of them. But better not rest yet, right? There are still so many things to explore…. Besides, they rested for so long beforehand, didn’t they? They wish to see to their injuries from the teeth-clamper, at least.

With that in mind, they clamber up higher until they find a vaguely and roughly bowl-like shape, gouge a deeper and smoother hole for their body with the black claws at the end of their… fingers? Yes, fingers… with ample help of their intangible limb. And then they flop full-bodied into the new bed.

Snow is added on after the rather unpleasant collision between their back and the bottom of the bowl. Then, and only then, do they lever themself back up to inspect what they’ve got.

They’ve got four limbs, yes. The limbs are shorter in proportion to their body; arms and legs, the chatty, knowledgeable part of their mind informs them. The skin is all blue; a nice shade of sky blue that baffles the said chatty, knowledgeable part; and it is decorated with lines done in silvery white that are raised a little but aren’t wounds.

The skin should be pale white… no? And unlined but for some scars from injuries?

They close their eyes, concentrate, try to remember.

And then they got thoroughly distracted, when the air suddenly becomes deeply, bitingly cold, and the snow becomes burningly so. Yelping, they open their eyes again, and find that their limbs – no, _their entire body and perception_ – have indeed returned to what their mind remembers: pale white, scarred, skinny, stifled, much bigger, and a little hairy.

Shivering hard, they concentrate even deeper and quicker, and let out a relieved sigh when the air and snow turn warmer once more, faster than when the other change occurred. They _aren’t_ going to experiment again with the changes before they get to go somewhere much warmer, for sure!

Well, they will need some clothes, too, for that other version of their body, come to think of it again. They remember they were clothed, before… although they don’t remember if they were that _big_.

As for this one, their mind doesn’t recollect ever having this version of a body. But it feels just as natural as the other one, strangely. It looks and feels much less naked without clothing, as well, which is a plus when all that they’ve got here are just snow and ice and water and wind.

Then they frown, and give their groin a double take. They even – _briefly_ – change into their pale version – no, _versions_ , because they have to attempt it twice, with rather different results – to recheck.

They were a boy… no? In… _his_ … pale versions, _he_ is indeed a boy. Although, in the much smaller, much less hairy pale-skinned version, _he_ notices an… addition… to the place between the legs.

But in this blue version, he somehow doesn’t possess the bits that signify him as a boy, and all signs that he has _no bits at all_ , boy or girl. It perplexes him thoroughly, and even frightens him a little, although he doesn’t really know _why_.

Who is he, then? Or _she_ , rather? But “she” sounds so weird….

It? – ` _No no no no no no no. I’m a **person**!_`

They? – ` _Umm. Still weird. But better than “she,” right? Hasn’t it what I’ve been calling myself after I woke up?_ `

His hand creeps gingerly to the front of his groin, and just as tentatively touches himself. The skin there looks rather bumpy, and the silvery-white decorative lines don’t reach there….

Oh. Oh. He can feel things that may be _the beginning_ of his manly bits behind the skin, which is tougher than in other areas, when he presses in a little. He is just undeveloped, then, in this version?

With his whole face warming considerably, nearly to the point of discomfort, he ventures lower. His hand goes past the little nub sheltered in a dip of skin that possibly serves as pee-hole, to the place where he found his womanly bits in that smaller, pale version. He feels so naughty and guilty and awkward doing this, somehow, even though this is still his own body.

` _Damn changes. I didn’t ask for this!_ ` – Although, he was indeed asking – no, _begging_ – for someone, right? He was searching for someone, calling for someone, somewhere in a time that he _refuses_ to remember… right?

He finds no fleshy folds in his venture. However, he does find that there seems to be a vague line that may form the folds in the probably far future, engraved into the skin that feels just as tough as the one covering his possibly manly bits.

His frown deepens. He is truly of _both_ genders, then? Or _none_ , rather, as things stand right now? He should call himself a “ _they_ ” once more, then?

` _What did I get into? What happened? I wasn’t like this before, was I? Who am I, truly?_ `

There is something horrible in… his?… recent past, mixed with something bittersweet that… he… doesn’t know if he wants to relive or not. If the answers to his questions are there….

If those answers are indeed there, he doesn’t know if he’ll be brave enough to venture out _there_. He’s been considered courageous, even reckless, hasn’t he? But he wasn’t _just_ those, was he?

He is here. He is alone. He has literally _nothing_ to his forgotten name. He has even been _changed_ into something more and something else that is totally new. So he needn’t complicate the matter _further_ before he has to, right?

And, speaking of which….

He scrunches up his face, grimacing expansively. He’ll stick with “ _he_ ,” for now. If he can’t bear touching _himself_ , a part of his own body albeit a new one, what right does he have to claim that part as his own? Maybe, some time in the _far_ future, he’ll be a “ _they_ ,” or even a “ _she_ ,” but not _now_.

That decided, he scrutinises his fingers, and compares them with his – freakishly long – toes. The claw-nails on both sets are of the same tough black substance, stronger than the one belonging to his pale-skin versions. They seem to be less prone to uprooting, too, because his fingerclaws are chipped instead of missing, even though he rigorously used them to help gouge a deeper bed for himself.

They are retractable as well, he finds out, when he idly wishes them retracted, remembering the many cats he knew and somewhat befriended a long time ago. ` _Blimy. This one’s great!_ ` Now it looks as if he just had twenty black fingernails and toenails all combined, however ragged they are at present.

And what a pleasant finding it is, that he only has _twenty_ digits on his hands and feet, no more and no less! He _isn’t_ in the mind for more surprises. It is enough already that he finds his toes longer than they are in his other forms… or maybe just in his bigger form… and a lot more movable than those belonging to the said bigger version, _too_.

A search on his chest finds no nipples. A more tentative, more trepidatious venture upwards finds him a pair of small, _movable_ pointed ears that can even cover the ear canals after some concentration. His teeth are sharper and more firmly attached to his jaws than the ones in his other forms, as well.

And he is _eyebrowless_. The place is now occupied by ridges, although they are not at all grotesquely prominent or harshly set.

So much for _no more changes_.

Just _what_ is he?

It’s a consolation prize, really, that his nose turns out to be pretty similar to those of his other shapes, and that he finds a scalp full of downy fuzz on the top of his head. It is yet to be found whether his eyes – and yes, he has only _two_ of them! – are as blue as his skin, or shaped differently, or have differently shaped pupils, but he won’t bother with any thought of it at present.

The soft nest he made for himself is luring him fast into slumber. Now that he’s explored himself as much as he can without the aid of a reflective surface, he is going to table any more exploration on himself and his surroundings for tomorrow. The stars twinkling overhead means it’s currently nighttime, right? It’s time for people to sleep, isn’t it?

He _hates_ sleeping alone, in this body. He fancies himself less lonely in his other forms, or at least one of those; but he daren’t change into that for the time being. So, in an effort to make his nest less visible and open wide, and in an effort to recreate the cocoon that he adored so in his latest bittersweet memories, he digs up more ice and crushes it into snow that he layers on himself using his “intangible hands.”

In this way, he finds out that he can breathe in snow _less_ comfortably than in air or water. It makes reluctant sense to him, since snow is, after all, not quite water and possesses no access to open air. _But still_.

Huffing inwardly, he stirs from his comfy position and makes sure that a small part beside the lip of the nest is open, and that his nose has direct access to it. This means he can only lie on his side facing the opening.

However, it turns out to be a blessing in disguise. Apparently, curling up in a ball and hugging himself under all the snow can simulate the cocoon rather well, minus that other presence and of course the cocoon’s own – _drenching_ – presence.

In any case, he plonks right into a state of rest from one breath to the next.

It’s… different, _yet again_ , but at the same time so natural. He isn’t oblivious to his surroundings, but his mind has slowed down considerably, and peace suffuses him as if he’s lulled in a dreamless sleep. – He is still aware of the gentle rocking of his humongous bed. He is still aware of the wind now whistling beyond his shelter, shaving off his snow mound slowly but surely. He is still aware of the general turning of the time, too. But his mind is calm and uncaring, and his system has slowed down to a very, very sedate pace. It’s actually a rather nice and peaceful state to indulge in, and, muzzily, he thinks he can get accustomed to this, as opposed to… other things.

Well, but it’s _not_ nice when he is woken up by hunger and thirst. He got assaulted by blinding light when his head pops out of the snow, at that.

To top it all, he finds that this blue, amphibious form of his squeals like a _little baby_.

He doesn’t remember his precise age, but he is _very, very sure_ that he _isn’t_ a little baby!

Grumbling and whining, he dives back into the snow and curls up round his head for a while, trying to get rid of the spots of overbright illumination lingering in his vision. A part of him wonders how in the world is he able to _really_ curl up round himself like this, as if his spine were _that_ flexible, but the other part skitters away from _that_ with all haste.

He needn’t know about more freakishness happening to him right now. Freakishness is bad, and freaky people more so; much of his “before” memory affirms it, consistently and persistently.

Unbearable thirst sends him back out of his little, snowy sanctuary, at length. But this time he is more or less prepared, with hands covering his eyes. He wonders if he can eat the snow to substitute drinking water…. Is it going to work? Is it going to harm him?

But, well, he’s spent the night _naked_ and _thoroughly_ underneath a pile of snow, hasn’t he? And this remaining bit of snow in his nest isn’t even half as thick as he made it hours ago. He’s pretty sure not all of it has been swept away by the wind. Some must have sunk into his skin or something like that… maybe… probably….

So, screwing his eyes shut for added measure against the harsh light, he feels about with his fingers for a section of ice near his nest that isn’t directly exposed to the elements. Then he carefully tunnels into it with the same fingers, claws extended.

Careful crushing of the bit of ice he excavates through the tunnel yields him snow finer than the one occupying his nest, which he further wills into water with moderate success. And then he tries to drink the water as quickly as he can… with moderate failure.

` _Well, note to self: I need something for drinking, very, very, very soon,_ ` he thinks. He needs to hold the escapist water from running away from his mouth. As it is, he wears the water more than he imbibes it. So embarrassing; and frustrating, at that.

But, at the same time, there is a fun element to it, too….

Oh well.

Anyway, next is a hunt for something to eat, so he carefully, carefully, carefully creeps out of his bowl of self-made snow once more, with his eyes still shut tight and his hands covering them for good measure. He only opens his eyes when he is perched on a steady bit of ice, and it’s also done by shielding them as much as possible with his hands.

` _Second note to self: I also need some kind of protection for my eyes, very, very, very soon._ ` – Trying to look round while peeking from behind his fingers is both hard to do and so silly.

The shade of blue of the sea is mesmerising, though…. It’s almost as blue as his own skin is, with the crest of the waves acting like the lines that decorate his body….

He watches in awe as something breaks the undulating greyish blue line of the horizon, rising from the depths as if it were an extra-large wave that didn’t immediately break apart. It seems to be some type of animal, for it then emits a beautiful, deep, musical call, _and gets answered by a few more, which are rising at various points near the first one_. He spends an inordinate amount of time just watching it, spellbound.

Unfortunately, when the objects of admiration travel away and slowly sink back under the waves, he becomes aware of the stinging, throbbing pain _all over his body_. He only has time to wave good-bye to the huge, stately animals before diving back into his snowy nest, yowling in pain and aggrevation.

Sunlight wasn’t ever this painful when it’s cold all round! And he knows perfectly well that it’s cold now, because he knows ice will melt quickly when it’s warm; even ice the size of this bed-and-ride of his.

But then again, he was in his largest, hairiest pale-skinned form before, wasn’t he….

` _Third note to self: I need cold-weather gear, very, very, very soon, **too** , so I can be in that biggest form._` – He longs to be free of the torturous sideeffects of sunlight.

But maybe, if he’s careful not to put all of him in contact with the ice when he changes into any of his pale versions…?

What about his feet, though? They will still be in contact with the ice, he’d imagine. That won’t be good for him while in that form, right? He remembers still wearing footwear of some sort when he was forced to spend the night in the snow, a long time ago, and that saved him from freezing to death.

Regardless, he is _terribly, horribly, awefully **hungry**_! He is in stinging, throbbing pain from head to toe, too, and _still_ alone to boot.

Well, on the other hand, _he is alone_. Nobody is going to hear him and see him, especially with him hidden under all this snow like a snowy mole.

So he _lets go_ , for once in his recallable memory, and howls out his misery. Thoughts of the cocoon, and “the other one,” and how nice it was inside that cocoon, all those distract him slowly but surely from all the pain and hunger and returning thirst, until he thinks he’s asleep and dreaming.

The cocoon is there, but it isn’t a cocoon, now. He is latched on a very surprised being with red eyes and the same blue skin as his, though he can’t see whether the lines there match his or not. At the same time, he is attached to an even more surprised pale-skinned being in a far warmer – _far too warm_ – place, whose eye colour and shape nearly match what he remembers of one of his other versions’ eyes.

It’s _the other one_! He knows it, through the deepest, most primal sense of his own being. The clothes that “the other one” is wearing are rather strange, and that “other one” looks at him with shock and horror and disgust instead of recognition, but what the instinct tells him _isn’t a lie_. He knows a lie, and this _isn’t_.

He gives his cocoon-mate a delighted smile, and his cocoon an adoring one. And then, it’s time to go, sadly. He’s so tired. But now that he knows they’re _there_ , he won’t stop before he is reunited with them, once and for all.

When he wakes up again, he isn’t so thirsty anymore, but the snow has vanished from all round him. The heat and light of the sun are still very much present, but not as unbearable as before. The stinging, throbbing pain on his skin lingers in smaller degree; also bearable, if annoying.

A cautious peek to the sky shows an expanse of greyish white fluffy clouds. Apparently, the cloud cover is what has made the sunlight much more tolerable than before. ` _Safe, then,_ ` he thinks. Thus, happy as can be, he scampers towards the edge of his icy ride, peering at the lapping waves beyond, trusting that the filter will hold. He is so, so, so tempted to dive into the water again, to find out what is down there, and if whatever it is can be eaten; but he doesn’t want to be bitten by those sharp teeth again, either.

` _Uh, speaking of which…._ `

He tears his gaze away from the waves to scrutinise his still-sensitive skin. He didn’t search for any bite marks yesterday. It could’ve ended so badly….

But there is no bite mark anywhere on his body. Instead, his skin – _all of it_ – looks less shiny and healthy than before. It’s stiffer and rougher to the touch, and it shows some remnant flakiness like minute peels on paint on a wall, too. It’s probably been remedied just half-way by the snow he buried himself in for the hours he was asleep. – Is sunburn harder to heal than bite marks, then? At least in this form?

He frowns. How is he going to get something to eat if he can’t go into the water to fetch it? Then again, who knows, maybe the water can heal his skin all the way, too?

Hunger and curiosity defeat his concerns, in the end.

He creeps to the very edge of the ice and extends a hand to feel the water.

He yelps, then, eyes streaming, and scrambles up the ice chunk as fast as he can, as far as possible. – The water _burnt_ him! Is it because of the salt in the water connecting with somewhat flaky, somewhat raw skin?

Regardless, he _isn’t_ about to try again, at least not till he is fully healed from his sunlight exposure. And now, ignoring the burning hand, he has to make a shelter before those kind clouds shift away and the sun batters down on him again.

That afternoon, the blue child sleeps in a roughly hewn little igloo, built in a self-made dip high on the iceberg. He is covered from head to toe in freshly made snow, nursing a burnt hand and a very, very thirsty longing.

That evening, the iceberg gets a pair of visitors, and not of the animal or plantlife type at that.

A man and a teenage girl, shivering but silent and eager, alight softly on the uneven bit of ice near the edge, near the surging waves. They dismount the flying wooden broom they have just used to get there, then begin to trek up the iceberg as if it were an ordinary excursion in an ordinary place.

The man constantly sends his wary gaze all round as he climbs the jagged incline, but the girl scrambles up after him in single focus, in excitement that’s barely muted at that, as if without a care in the world. Both are dressed for icy weather, wrapped from head to toe. The colours and cuts aren’t indicative of the weather, _at all_ , though: Bold, garish hues decorates the long, thick riding skirt that each of them wears, and also their frilly hooded cloaks.

The man stows the broom they rode away – in a very, very small pouch that also acts as a pendant – once they’ve reached a certain height. Or rather, he does it when the girl suddenly stops, crouches down on the lip of a rather smooth and deep if small depression on the iceberg’s surface, half-way up. She immediately begins to wave her mittened hands carefully but seemingly randomly over the depression, so he assumes she’s found what they were looking for.

But still, to make sure, he asks, in a falsetto whisper that he hopes won’t offend _anybody_ , “Did you find it, Moonbeam? Is the giant not a giant after all? Are they invisible?”

“The air is colder over here, Daddy. I can feel it, even through the mittens,” the girl replies in the same whisper, with her voice contrarily pitched deeper. “But the giant is no longer here. Can this be just their footprint, Daddy?”

“No no no no, Lulu darling. It can’t be. All the accounts say the giants are _giants_. Their footprint can’t be this small,” the man rebuts, but with rising excitement and decreasing skittishness. “But see there, Honeybee. There’s some _snow_ and water on a few parts, although this iceberg has been away from land for a long time. A jötun was indeed here! We just have to search more dilligently. And remember, darling, _don’t spook them_. You’re the light of my life. I’d hate it so much if you’re hurt and I couldn’t protect you.” He reaches out and cuddles the girl from behind, pouring all his love and fondness for her into the gesture, making up for himself and his late wife _both_.

No wonder, it turns into a long, tight, clingy hug-fest.

The hug-fest is broken, reluctantly at that, when the sound of shifting snow comes from above them, barely audible above the endless susurration of the sea. Their eyes meet; both silvery grey-blue, filled with a mixture of trepedation and excitement and curiosity.

And then, at once and in unison, they turn round and inch away sidewise from the bowl-like depression, watching with owl-like eyes.

Nothing happens for a long, long time. The man even takes a few moments to periodically watch their surroundings, something that he forgot to resume, in his excitement.

The girl, on the other hand, shifts from foot to foot and looks up, up, up, up…. She has just caught the sense that something is watching them from above; something small and just as skittish as the duo are. Or _more_ skittish than they are, maybe, even, because they have trekked half-way up here, while the watcher has been hidden from the start and hasn’t shown signs of wishing to confront them in any way.

Well, polite guests must announce themselves at the door, right? These guests aren’t so polite, in that light, as they entered the sanctuary without giving a figurative knock to the figurative door first. Still, she feels that it isn’t yet too late for them to remedy the situation.

So, “Hello! I’m Luna Lovegood! And this is my parent, Xenophilius Lovegood! We come here in peace!” she calls out softly in her deepened voice. After all, it is said that the frost giants – or the jötnar, or Ýmir’s Children… or is it “Thrým’s Children”? – are hermaphrodites, and take offence to those who blatantly showcase their womanliness or manliness, with more tolerance towards the women than to the men. She and her daddy are just covering as many points as they can.

Disappointingly, there is no answer for a long, long time, nor is there any overt reaction. But she can still feel the attention of the hidden watcher being trained on her and her daddy. It’s sharpening and turning more thoughtful, in fact, so she deems the introduction a success.

Her daddy apparently got the same feeling, because he soon copies her introduction, in his falsetto voice: “Hello! I’m Xenophilius Lovegood! I’m Luna Lovegood’s parent! We come in peace! We bring you an offering, too, if you would like it?” And from his mokeskin pouch, he retrieves a wooden bowl filled with their leftover roasted venison strips, which quickly freeze in the damp, icy air.

Luna Lovegood, the girl, inwardly groans in mortification. She hopes their reluctant host isn’t aware that the meat is just some _leftover_ , if well cooked and well seasoned and well preserved! She and her daddy came here in peace, truly, for the sake of curiosity and to flee from the Death Eaters that have been pursuing them all across Northern Europe this summer. She has no desire to flee from a possible and possibly exciting encounter with a frost giant, _too_!

All the same, her daddy carefully levitates the bowl of venison strips up the jagged slope of the iceberg. Luna waits with bated breath as it clacks softly on the ice, and the shifting snow sounds again as if in response.

And then, clearly, they hear a low-toned, chiming, distinctly childlike delighted croon from up there, accompanied by the sound of what might be something hard scraping against the inside of the wooden bowl.

Luna’s heart leaps to her throat, and she can’t help but to let out a small gasp. Her daddy hugs her tight from behind, just as excited and trepidatious as she is.

Excited and trepidatious, and also _wondering_.

Have they stumbled into a jötun’s home or temporary nest? Is the child’s parent nearby – hunting? Or _spying on them_? Should they pursue more interaction or flee when they still can? Should they stay and give another offering to _also_ appease the parent? But what kind of food they’ve got that could possibly satisfy the stomach of a full-grown jötun?

Her daddy takes their trusty Cleansweep Seven back out of his mokeskin pouch and mounts it, dragging Luna to the spot in front of him as per usual. He kicks up, and they rise gently ever upwards, to the place where the sounds originated. Good idea, Luna thinks. This way, they can flee at any time while they can also interact at a level ground – so to say – with their young host.

And their young host is _young_ , indeed, it turns out, to Luna’s surprise and intrigue and added trepidation. Blue-skinned, glowing-solid-red-eyed, with silvery-white lines running all over the face and body and arms and legs; all true and confirmed; but this frost giant is _tiny_! They’re just the size of a one-year-old, or maybe two, and clearly naked despite their attempt to cover themself with their folded-up legs. They’re practically a _baby_!

“Ah. Where’s your mummy, little one?” she croons, unable to help herself. Thoughts fly about busily in her mind, meanwhile. – Is this beautiful baby _abandoned_? Is this one a runt, therefore thrown out of their clan, like what the European mountain giants would do to their runty clan-members? Has the baby been hidden for safety while the parent – or parents? – is… or are… hunting for food to feed them? There has been no information anywhere to be found about frost-giant babies and jötun child-rearing….

Regardless, those pupilless, glowing red eyes, overly large for the baby’s sadly thin face, watch her with scared wariness, and no peep comes out of the pursed little lips, which is in a blue shade darker than their skin. Luna’s heart melts with adoration and heartbreak.

“We don’t mean harm to you, really. Do you like the venison? We don’t have more of it, but we can hunt some more and roast it for you. I’m sure the bimdingers will lead us to the nearest herd,” she babbles, forgetting to sound older and androgynous. “You’ve got beautiful eyes, do you know that? Like rubies under the sun. Wraksputs and nargles and all manner of unsavoury creatures love ruby eyes, in our homeland. But we only found one set there, thankfully, and in any case yours are more beautiful by far, and I don’t think they will bother you.”

Her daddy pats her shoulder surreptitiously; maybe a warning, maybe a reminder of their finite time here. But Luna is still mesmerised by those wary, young-but-so-old eyes.

The little baby seems to be equally spellbound, in turn. They gaze into her eyes peaceably without blinking, abandoning the nearly untouched bowl by their side. They make no move to retreat to the baby-sized hole in the ice behind them, too.

Then, still entranced, she stretches out a hand.

And the baby scuttles backwards, bringing the bowl with them, just a move away from diving into the baby-sized hole and probably sealing it shut.

“Whoa! I’m sorry!” she gasps, tensing. Behind her, her daddy tenses as well and grips the handle of the broom before her tighter.

“Moonbeam, maybe we’d better go, darling,” he urges her. He seems to be about to do just that, in fact, with all alacrity, regardless of how _im_ polite that would be.

` _This is such a disaster!_ ` Luna thinks, disappointed with herself. – She and her daddy have been to so many places and seen so many new people and animals. This _shouldn’t_ be different, and that means keeping her distance when the other party _doesn’t_ want to approach her.

“I’m sorry, little one. Would you forgive me?” she tries again. “You can take the bowl. We still have five more, and we can always make more. The unglunchas like me enough; I can always ask them where I can find good wood to carve out another bowl.” – She talks about the unglunchas who take form as brownish fog figures in the air. She chatters about the wood sprites that light the way and accompany peaceful little ones when they are lost in the forest. She muses about the wood-lily flowers which freeze into fragrant wooden lilies when the unglunchas pass over them for sustenance….

The baby doesn’t get closer, in the end of all her rambling. But at least they smile on the mention of the lilies.

“Do you want me to call you Lily?” she offers, smiling back.

The baby’s smile widens, and they even _laugh_ a little, sounding beautifully like the chiming of polished crystal beads. It sounds like they’re laughing _at_ her, but it isn’t a problem for her. People usually laugh at her, anyhow. Being laughed at by an adorable baby jötun is, in comparison, something to be admired and cherished. And such a delightful sound–!

They point at the gloomy sky above, then, maybe in answer to her question, and wave their little hand about cutely. So she looks up as well, and frowns at the dark clouds blotting out the stars. “Do you want to be called Cloud instead?” she ventures out.

The baby shakes their head; a very _not-baby_ human reaction that nearly unseats her from the broom with startled astonishment. – Is it a “yes”? Is it a “no”? How did a baby _jötun_ learn such a gesture? Does this gesture mean something other than “yes” or “no” in their culture?

“No?” she hazards a guess.

They _nod_.

` _Wow! A baby that’s maybe not a baby!_ ` she thinks, with a mixture of awe and chagrin that makes her blush other than by the biting chill of the air. ` _Is the appellation “frost **giant** ” a misnomer, then? Or is this action natural for a baby frost giant?_` – To think that she has been calling them a baby! No wonder that they laughed!

Nevertheless, practised with ignoring many things from faux-pas – hers and others – to deliberate malice directed at her, she gamely goes on. “Windy, then? Or Thunder? Seems like it’s going to rain soon…. Or do you want to be called Raine? Or maybe Skye? Sky’s _big_ , and people can ride brooms across it, and one of my schoolmates was a _very, very good_ flier….”

Her daddy chuckles behind her at her growing excitement. “Maybe your new friend has a name already, darling Honeybee? Why don’t you ask them? And then we must sadly go back to the land, since we’ll freeze to death if we’re caught in the rain out here.”

Luna blushes redder, to that. “Sorry!” she squeaks. “Maybe I need some nargle-checking, or maybe my runes are eroding…. – Would you please tell me your name, little one?”

The baby-looking person gives her a shrug, after a long pause. They look indecisive and even a little scared, though, instead of unknowing, so she doesn’t push them. Everybody can have secrets, and she is fine with it.

“Might I call you Skye?” she asks instead.

On their tentative nod, accompanied by a strange mixture of grief and longing that scrunches up their little face horribly, she continues hopefully, “In my culture, we shake hands on introduction, whoever we are and whatever our relationship is with the other person. Do you have something like it in your culture?”

To her utter delight, in response, the baby-like person sets aside the gifted bowl, stands up with a blush of deeper blue on their entire face, and reaches out their right hand, which is tipped with black fingernails.

Hand meets mitten, then.

And the mitten slowly crumbles into blackened dust on the spot touched by the hand.

The baby-like person snatches the hand away, squeaking, looking shocked and horrified and frightened. Bug-eyed, they scuttle backwards, half falling into their baby-sized hole. They garble out something – maybe a word, maybe just a terrified sound, maybe a combination of both – even as they squirm deeper into the hole, with apparently no thought spared for the food they’ve just abandoned.

It’s _so, so hard_ to consider this runt of a jötun an adult, with how they’re reacting like this to a simple mistake that hasn’t harmed her at all, only the outer layer of her – _cheap and unprotected_ – mitten. Could they be a precocious little child who’d been exposed to human interaction but then got themself stranded here, instead? – ` _So aweful!_ `

“I’m sorry, Skye! Please forgive me?” she calls out to the darkened hole, with no blue little being in sight. “I don’t want to part with you in a bad note. Please? I’m sorry I forgot that Mymira Bulstrode said the touch of a jötun can freeze things…. – Daddy, please wait a little while?”

“Moonbeam….” But her daddy’s next words peter out into silence, and the broom he’s begun to direct away from the iceberg freezes on the spot, hovering still.

The blue little being has just _floated_ out, that’s why; with their body wreathed in chilly fog, at that, perhaps for the sake of modesty. And they’re not blue anymore, although their hair is still black and fuzzy-soft-looking.

They’re _pale_ ; pale as a human who is healthy but naturally fair-skinned and receives little sunlight. Their face is even that of a human, now, with those thin black eyebrows and those leaf-green eyes and those white teeth and those – _almost_ – rounded ears.

But, most importantly, they look like a human child – no, a human _baby_ , if a human baby could float upright on their own and summon fog to clad himself or herself with such precision for so long.

Her daddy sucks in a sharp breath. Luna can very well empathise with him.

It’s one thing to part ways amicably with a baby-sized adult. But it’s totally another thing to abandon a _true baby_ on an iceberg, whoever the baby is.

“Skye?” Her voice trembles a little, and she can’t conceal it, but a part of her indeed doesn’t want to conceal it – conceal the horror about the idea that, most likely, _somebody_ has abandoned _a baby_ out here, so far away from help and interaction and civilisation of any kind.

But the little one just clasps her other – mittened – hand in theirs, gently and solemnly. It’s as if it would be the last time they meet each other, not only the first. Their bright, leaf-green eyes – so at odds with the colours of the surrounding landscape, and so alike the eyes of a martyred upper-class schoolmate whom she wishes she’d known – catalogue her features as if intending to keep those in memory.

Tears fill her eyes, in turn. She wishes things were otherwise. She wishes this baby could be her friend. They’ve certainly paid her the attention that Ginny – her village neighbour and the only age peer she knew before Hogwarts – has never given her; and, she thinks, it could be counted as them _wanting_ to be her friend, too.

If only she and her daddy weren’t going to be pursued yet again once they made landfall. If only this little one were bigger and more knowledgeable and stronger and able to defend themself. If only….

But people sadly can’t live on if-onlies, nor can they lament their lives forever if they wish to survive in this darkened time.

Well, if she and her daddy can’t bring this baby with them for fear of getting such an innocent soul killed faster without a chance to defend themself, then, “Call for Dobby when you want to come away from this iceberg, Skye,” she tells the little one quietly. “Or when you need anything, really. I’m sure he’d like to help.”

“He can really help you and care for you, believe me. It’ll be good for the both of you. He’s devastated, at Hogwarts. He misses his ‘Great Harry Potter Sir’,” she continues, smiling sadly. “I miss Harry Potter, too. I miss knowing him as a person. Dobby always insists that Harry is still alive somewhere, if rather changed, but nobody – well, nobody _else_ – wants to believe him. Maybe Dobby could find his purpose once more, if he served you?” … Because the deepest part of her insists quite loudly that this little, abandoned baby _does_ somehow have some tie to Dobby’s hero and the martyred scapegoat boy of the Wizarding world. That bit of tie may be enough to prevent poor Dobby – a fellow outcast whom she’d loved to visit in the kitchen at Hogwarts before studying in the castle became too risky to risk – from wasting away, while the action may also provide an attentive defender and caregiver for this poor baby.

To her relief, Skye nods to that, albeit bemusedly. It’s enough for her.

And now, she no longer has anything to tether her here. The weather even conspires against her, blowing damper and chillier wind every so often past her face and sending threatening rumbles from above.

“Take care, Skye,” she whispers, hugging the tiny, skinny frame of the jötun turned human with all the warmth and gentleness that she can muster and convey. “I hope we’ll see each other again, someday.”

The flying broom brings the forlorn little family away, right afterwards. They don’t turn back. The world is strangely far darker away from the iceberg, and they can barely see anything, so they must concentrate on riding and dodging possible dangers.

The iceberg itself, still glowing faintly and bathed in a light that isn’t readily visible ever since a pair of blue hands firstly touched it, looks abandoned in almost no time at all. The child isn’t there, whether blue or white, and neither is the bowl of frozen venison strips.

The said child, dubbed “Skye” by a kind, lonely soul that has _also_ been ripped away from them just now, is currently curled up in the rough-hewn little igloo under a pile of snow. They’re shaking from head to toe, assaulted by memories, as if the iceberg were no longer an iceberg but the pit of a fortress of despair.

_“Harry Potter….”_

_“Bow to death, Harry.”_

_“Not Harry! Please not Harry!”_

_“Please take my body back to my parents, Harry.”_

_“Harry James Potter, you are hereby sentenced to life imprisonment at Azkaban….”_

_“Harry!”_

_“Lily, it’s him! Take Harry and go!”_

_“Please! Not Harry! Have mercy!”_

The iceberg loses weight and definition the farther and the longer it travels to warmer waters and airs. But strangely enough, for all that care to see, a few places on it are left intact, as if sculpted patiently into shape. No human approaches it, still, despite their curiosity, for they fear a fatal collision with the humongous icicle; neither does any animal, for this chunk of ice feels just as deeply cold as when it firstly broke away from the ice-covered land that birthed it. It looks just as abandoned as any other icebergs, furthermore, so the idea of a bold exploration on it is unappealing to their sense of curiosity.

But _necessity_ …. Well, that is another matter entirely.

The iceberg is now the shape of a floating ice-island. It has travelled farther south than any of its brethren before, and there likely won’t be any other that tops this record. Its rather unassuming and ambiguous shape detracts any attention from it.

Save one.

A small shape that has been floating powerlessly on the waves for some time suddenly gains a little bit of life. It swims slowly but surely towards the ice-island, having spied the small mound on it that may mean food or maybe even shelter.

The shape just lies draped on the ice for a long while, nevertheless, upon gaining the “firm land” that it has hoped for, although still a small distance away from the mound it has aimed for. All its energy has been spent in the effort to swim here, and it has no other recourse to gain more. The ice is terribly cold, colder than the cubed little bits one could get from the refrigerator, but the sun beating down from above helps reduce the chill, so the situation is bearable for some time yet.

The westering sun – and thus, the lowering temperature – brings the new visitor to the ice-island out of its stupour. It sits up laboriously and shakes itself, and the clearly female figure of a woman emerges out of the huddle. Unfortunately, she has chosen a bad time to uncoil herself. Because just then, wind begins blowing with gusto, responding to the shifting temperatures, battering at her while sending huge sprays of saltwater at her still-very-much-wet body and clothing.

Scowling tiredly, she goes to all-fours and creeps sluggishly across the icy expanse of jagged white surface, continuing on her way; too tired to walk, yet too stubborn to give up. She has spent so much and so arduous a time to fight to survive out here; energetic breezes, wet clothes and overly chilly “land” are not going to defeat her.

Hopefully.

With that in mind, she speeds up her crawling and only stops when she’s at last arrived at her destination, the one that she spied earlier from the open sea: a small, strangely rather well-made mounded hole that may fit a fox or a very small child. If an animal has really made this, she is going to have the double fortune of acquiring a meal and a shelter all at once, just like she hoped. She might be able to survive, then, until this temporary island melts or until she is retrieved. She is used to adverse situations. She can survive this. Having survived twenty days in the open sea after escaping an exploded commercial aeroplane is no laughable achievement. She can stand to add to it.

Maybe, if she proves herself competent _and highly useful_ , she can survive longer, get sent to various places, get trained to be able to survive longer… or even get acknowledged and raised higher, and retiring not to the grave but to… something else nicer… at the end of her service.

It’s a good dream; vague as all her emotions usually are, and she shares it with many others of her ilk-by-force, but still a good dream, and she’ll _fight and kill_ to get it.

She works harder on dismantling the little tunnel leading to the little home, thus, than on crawling to this point earlier. ` _Food, food, food, food,_ ` she chants in her head, all the while, like a woman possessed. ` _food, food, food, food._ ` Because she needs food to survive longer, to give _them_ more time to retrieve her.

One of her remaining two knives is ready, slipped under the sleeve of her tattered catsuit, which is in turn hidden beneath her even-more-shabby businesswoman outfit. Meanwhile, her hands are feverishly tearing away the chunks of ice that form the surprisingly quite stable hole. There is no regard in her about the wounds she is inflicting on those appendages in the process, nor care of how deranged she might look. She goes further, further, further, further….

The blade of her knife rests on the jugular of a blue being: a blue-skinned, red-eyed _something_ that looks disturbingly like a very small human child, that must have huddled inside the hole long before she came here, that has _a wooden bowl of what looks like frozen meat strips_ beside it. And the blue little being is _more than half submerged_ in a pile of unmelting fresh snow _inside the hole_ as if dipping in a bubble bath.

Wild eyes meet wild eyes.

None of them moves. None of them looks away.

Her heart thumps madly in her ribcage. ` _An alien? **Here**? A very small, **very young one** at that? What is it doing **here**? Where did the bowl of meat come from? It’s too civilised – we’re in the middle of **nowhere**!_`

Her hand tightens on the handle of the knife. It won’t be the first time she has to kill a child – or even _children_. The Red Room is – has _always_ been – populated by children, stripped out of everything that makes them children – that makes them _human beings_ – and turned into weapons. She is the product of that very programme, and she has fought to survive even at the cost of other children’s lives since the start. Her first mission past “graduation” was even a case of arson on a children’s hospital, providing a distraction for some other assassin, with some target of opportunity as the “bonus.” Those young-sounding screams….

Her wrist wavers, despite the chokehold she has on her weapon otherwise.

Her rivals, children though they were, were dangerous and competent, and indeed showed how dangerous and competent they were in various occasions. She has confronted no child personally ever since _that time_. And now, a pair of large eyes that swallow the small, thin face look into her own widened eyes with the kind of helplessness and knowledge _and acceptance_ that jar her to the bone, all wreathed in a strange kind of innocence that makes her damp hair stand on end.

“Who are you?” she wants to ask, _needs_ to ask. But what comes out of her mouth is just some painful croaking sound. A second attempt meets with failure, and so does the third one.

She backs off physically and verbally after the fourth attempt makes her throat close up with burning pain. The knife never leaves her hand; she doubts she can let go of it even if she wants to; but it no longer directly aims to kill the little blue alien.

It takes the said blue alien even more time to relax its rigid posture, understandably. And the moment it does, it scuttles away to the other side of the little ice-island, with its eyes never leaving hers and the knife.

The bowl of meat goes with it, unfortunately.

But….

The woman, still very much bedraggled and shivering and _starving_ , frowns in puzzlement and reluctant interest. The alien is carefully scraping the frozen meat off the bowl and burying it in ice near where it sits.

It digs for some untouched ice from under the surface and puts the chunk in the bowl, after that, before putting its little hand on the said chunk as if to bless it.

And, right under the little blue hand with those black, little finger- _claws_ , right before her eyes as well, the chunk of ice slowly but surely crumbles into littler and littler pieces. Most of it melts into water, then, but lots of tiny ice chips remain. And it results in a surprisingly beautiful effect of diamond-like glimmers, coloured red and orange and yellow and purple-blue by the light of the setting sun, floating and swirling on the liquid surface.

The alien doesn’t seem to care about the light effect, though. The water quickly vanishes into its maw, filtering past sharp, solid-looking black teeth.

She begins to understand why it isn’t impressed by its own feat when, finished with the bowlful of ice water, it refills the wooden container in the same way. This must be par for the course for this alien, or maybe even for all of its no-doubt ice-dwelling race. Maybe the meat which previously filled the bowl is just some “odd treasure” found somewhere, to be kept as some useless trinket, or–.

It is with all her might that she keeps her expression neutral. She can’t prevent a small but sharp intake of breath from dragging into her nostrils, however. – The _refilled_ bowl is suddenly _flying_! It is _gliding in the air_ towards her, a few inches off the ice, guided by just the look of concentration on the little alien’s face! She has _never_ , in her training and career and travels, ever imagined… _this_.

And then, the bowl settles on the bit of ice before her with a gentle clack.

It stays there for a long, long moment, in which the only audible soundss are those of the wind and the waves, and the only detectable movement is that of the latter. The woman sits cross-legged rigidly, refusing to touch the water in the bowl however tantalising it looks. She _will not_ fall for this cheap trick. She has been well practised in this kind of game since early childhood. She has even practised it on her targets a few times, when time is a luxury that her then current mission can afford.

But the little alien isn’t paying attention to her; no longer, past the first few seconds after it floated the bowl to where she is seated. It doesn’t return to its now ruined hole, since – she is sure – the said hole is too close to where she’s parked herself. Neither does it try to shoo her away from her spot, or even off the ice-island. It is instead preoccupied with sucking – or is it nibbling? – at one of the strips of meat it previously buried in the ice, looking listless… or is it sullen? ill? Sleepy?

She frowns, breaking her statue imitation at last, when her reluctant, much abused inadvertent host floats one of those frozen jerky pieces to her, to accompany the bowlful of icy water – _which is **still** water, instead of returning to ice in this chilly ambience_. The meat clutched _possessively_ in its hands is half gone already, and now it gives her one of those prized things instead of keeping them for itself? What is it playing at?

She glares at the little blue alien, who seems to blend with the colours of evening seascape this far down the northern hemisphere. She has sharp eyes and sharper mind, honed even sharper through training and experience, and she _still_ would miss his silhouette if she didn’t pay careful attention. So, if she were preoccupied with the water and the meat….

` _Ha! So you mean to distract me?_ ` a part of her crows in vindictive pleasure, muted as it is, like all her other emotions and thoughts. But another part, a more critical one, questions what her _very much reluctant_ host is trying to distract her from, all this time, with nothing extraordinary happening all round them.

And the smallest part, some remnant of the seven-year-old that she was in another lifetime, wonders how a much abused person can still behave rather politely to their abuser, however inadvertent the abuse was.

This weak, traitorous part also wonders if this is just the kindness one sentient being extends to another in a “normal” life, the life that she has been wrenched from all those years ago.

Ironically enough, the smallest part is the one that wins the internal battle in her mind, this time.

She picks up the bowl, without tearing her gaze from the other occupant of the little ice-island, not even for a moment. But even while she is sipping the chilly yet surprisingly fresh content of the wooden receptacle, the alien’s attention is not on her, like it can’t care less about whatever she does with the… _gifts_. It is now _slipping into the water_ , in fact, as if it had no fear that it wouldn’t be able to return; that she would’ve fully occupied the little ice-island, kicking it out from its own home.

The little alien doesn’t return for quite a long time, in which the woman has managed to finish both the content of the bowl and the piece of frozen jerky. Full-stomach-induced drowsiness is hounding her mercilessly when the tiny blue being finally surfaces, clutching a pair of limp fish to its chest with both arms with some difficulty.

_And_ one of the said fish, the size of the alien’s little torso, is floated towards her, while the other one is slowly, meticulously and steadily stripped to the bone by two sets of blue, minuscule fingers tipped with deadly natural weapons.

The alien is _feeding her_ , not once but _twice_.

As if she were its guest, not a dangerous intruder.

What is it playing at? Or is it indeed this trusting, this gullible, this _blind_ , even to those who have _blatantly_ threatened its life?

What will this strange being do to her or assume about her if she takes this offering and eats it?

More importantly, still, disregarding what the little alien might think of her or do to her: How can she pack this fish for later? – She will sorely need the sustenance that it can provide in the next hours, doubtlessly. It’s just _not now_ , because her stomach, no longer accustomed to being filled other than by _occasional_ rainwater as it has been these twenty hellish days and nights, already feels pretty full jjust by a small bowlful of water and a smallish strip of jerky.

Logically speaking, seeing that she is literally sitting on a huge chunk of ice, the fish should be preserved well by the chill it emanates. But the sun here, so close to the equator line, can spoil it easily from above. Digging a shallow hole and burying it inside could solve that problem, yet it would open a brand-new one, namely if the alien would retaliate for the loss of its little home by ruining her impromptu icebox.

But maybe, if she buries the fish where and when the alien can’t see her…?

The problem becomes a moot point when her sharp hearing, sharpened even more by a long time of isolation in the ocean, picks up the sharp, rumbling sound of an approaching aeroplane. It’s above and still far away, but _about to pass over the iceberg_.

Shelter. She needs _shelter_. The little blue alien needs to be hidden, as well, or she will be found out all the same.

The little alien’s ruined home is still there. She could maybe build a crude igloo to hide the both of them on that spot.

But the aeroplane is approaching _so fast_ , and building an igloo from ice chunks that she must excavate herself will take _so long_ , and–.

` _WHEN AND WHERE DID THAT GREEN CREATURE COME FROM?!!_ ` – Because something – _somebody_? – a little taller than the little blue alien is suddenly _here_ , on this lone chunk of humongous ice, floating in an _ocean_ , practically _in the middle of nowhere_. It’s standing on the space between her and the blue alien, clad in mismatched socks and mismatched clothes and a whole lot of knitted caps. _And it’s just another thing that will get her found out by whoever it is in the jet_.

She puts the fish – _her_ fish – into the bowl, holds it with one hand, and raises her knife with the other hand.

The glowing, solid red eyes of the blue alien meet hers.

The jet passes overhead.

The green alien raises its hands.

Her world squeezes into darkness and silence.

_All_ , in just a second.

And then her world pops rudely back out of the squeezing darkness and silence, with the accompaniment of phantom pain and disorientation and acute nausea.

She would have loosed the knife she holds on the green creature if only the blue one didn’t wail _so loud_ , quickly followed by the _louder wail_ of the culprit of their instantaneous displacement.

If only she didn’t feel so _faint_ , at that, so abruptly moved from a dark, wet, icy environment to this bright, dry, hot air.

And then she _does_ faint, as her body is unable to contain the shock that it has just received, despite the command of her iron will. Her last thought is, ` _Pity. I won’t get to eat the fish._ ` And the last sensation that she is aware of is tiny, cool hands pressing on her temple and cheek, as if giving or receiving comfort, _or both_.

It leaves only two beings that are more or less aware and upright in wherever they have been transported to, which is truly the opposite of the patch of deep ice floating in the ocean under the night sky where they were in seconds ago: a small, sunlit clearing, bordered by dense foliage, at the end of an overgrown path.

And at the wake of the woman’s loss of consciousness, the said two beings can only stare unblinkingly at each other for a long, long, long time: glowing red eyes on bulging green ones.

And then, the owner of the glowing red eyes whimpers, before keeling over in the same overwhelming shock as the woman did.

The owner of the bulging green eyes, the one named Dobby by his first mistress so long ago, squeaks in fright and concern and darts forward. He barely manages to catch the smaller, blue being before they can touch the ground.

The smaller, blue being who used to be far taller, pale white, purely male and a human. His hero. His friend.

_His master_ , since three years ago, after a frightened, exhausted, caring boy freed a desperate slave by passing a piece of dirty, slimy sock to his old master, to be thrown to him.

Master Harry. And Master Harry never called, even after Master Harry had been freed – in a way – from the horrible prison. But Dobby had always been vigilent, watching the moods and emotions and thoughts of his master closely, ready to act, even before he had cleft to Master Harry. And just a moment ago, Master Harry had need of him, without even saying that much.

Dobby is not certain, anyway, if Master Harry can speak _at all_ , now, after so long in the company of the horrible creatures Master Harry so hated and feared.

So he just _acted_ : popping – _so far_ – onto that bit of flat ice in the middle of an ocean – _so cold_ – when Master Harry went into a panic about how to escape the ice. He brought Master Harry’s possessions – _so little_ – and the woman Master Harry had shared a meal with – _shared a home with_ – along in the escape that Master Harry had unknowingly requested.

Here, to the nearest Potter property reachable from the ice, but the farthest from British influence.

Here, where Master Harry can be _safe_ and cared for, by Dobby – and maybe Winky, too, later on.

Here, where Master Harry can hopefully recover; first himself then his life, his land, his people….

` _Recover. Master Harry needs to **recover**. Master Harry needs to sleep in a proper bed. Maybe in a very, very, very, very low temperature? Master Harry seemed to like the ice so much._`

Dobby vanishes for the second time in just as many minutes, now straight into the master bedroom in the Potter property beyond the clearing, with both of his charges. ` _Dobby is Master Harry **Potter’s** elf. Master Harry **Potter** is in another form currently, not a human one. Master Harry **Potter** needs to rest, and Dobby brings him there. Master Harry **Potter** won’t be happy if Master Harry’s guest is not inside, too,_` is the thought – the _key_ – that lets him past the formidable wards surrounding the land, the house and the master wing.

Hoping that a more familiar ambience will help Master Harry and guest, Dobby transfigures the expansive rug in the master living-room into an approximation of the humongous ice thing they were found on. He cools the air down to a freezing temperature, for good measure. And then, he transfers the both of them onto that strange bed, with a bonus of some snow for comfort and a touch of softness. Oh, they will need blankets as well for a warmer option or an interesting combination, so he gets them a bunch of soft and comfortable sheep leather sheets from the property’s storeroom. The blankets must be waterproof to count for the snow, after all, and not too warm or useless as a warmer either.

This is so exciting! It has been quite a while since the last time Dobby could _really_ tend to his master, _any_ master; without fear of threats, without fear of hurts, without sneaking around, without reservation, and without a very, very stringent rule on what to do and how to think and what to say.

Here, Dobby is a servant and not a slave. Here, Dobby has _family_.

And Dobby _wants_ to do his best for his family.

` _Dobby wants to prepare this place for a possible home for Master Harry **Potter**. Master Harry **Potter** might like it here. Master Harry **Potter** must be kept safe from hurtful people,_` he tells the wards that keep the master wing safe, then the ones round the house, then the ones that surround the property as a whole. ` _Dobby asks permission to clean and arrange things. Dobby may have to go out to buy things too._ `

The magic in old magical places is somewhat sentient, more often than not; shaped by the general environment, the purpose of the place, and/or the thoughts and emotions of the people that visit often and/or inhabit it. _Wards_ surrounding an old magical place, even more, since they are constructed and directed bits of magic. But the wards surrounding a Potter property, Dobby finds, are _fully sentient entities_ of some kind.

They are _nodding_ in acknowledgement and permission at his explanations and requests, after all, in their own way. And, come to think of it again, he could never have _reasoned_ with the wards surrounding the Malfoy Manor and the Black House before he had been given expressed permission by the masters of those properties; but he _did_ reason his entry into this property, alongside the master who has _not_ proven his Potterness to the wards and an almost totally unrelated guest.

Nice! Master Harry will be so protected – _truly_ protected – here! This can really be a home for Master Harry and Dobby and maybe also Master Harry’s guest! Well, Dobby doesn’t know what it is called, or where it really is, or what’s inside of it, or if Master Harry will really like to live here, because he only asked the Potter magic to give him a safe place to bring Master Harry to, but he will make this a home worthy of Master Harry!

So he wanders all over the master wing of the house, then the house itself, then the _huge_ land the house sits on, and familiarises himself with _everything_. And then he gets down to the business of reviving rooms, checking on and pulling out and restocking the ingredients for the kitchen and potions lab, adjusting the temperatures and decor to fit Master Harry’s current taste, and retrieving Master Harry’s things that have been spread far and wide since Master Harry got imprisoned last year. The wards warn him away from the grounds, claiming that Master Harry should know what to do with the land if Master Harry is indeed a Potter, so Dobby just focuses himself on what he can do with the house and inside of it. He already has much of happy, happy work with what he is permitted to do, anyway! So many things to restock, renew, redo and rearrange for Master Harry!

It is why, when Master Harry finally wakes up, three days after Dobby got him and his guest out of the huge ice thing in the middle of the sea, Dobby greets him with a cheerful smile and a deep bow and a chirpy, “Hello, Master Harry! Welcomes home! Dobby has prepares everything for Master Harry and guest! Does Master Harry needs anything right now?”

Sadly, the smaller, blue being that is Master Harry snuggles deeper into the snow instead of saying or thinking anything, with wide scared eyes trained on Dobby. But it will not do for Dobby’s master! Master Harry ought not to fear his own servant! So Dobby sits down not too close and babbles sweet-nothings and reassurances to Master Harry, as if Master Harry were really a toddler, like Master Harry’s current form suggests. He pitches his voice much lower, in case Master Harry’s current form has good ears that get irritated with loud noises. He also swings his intonation a little to keep Master Harry peaceable, like he did a long time ago when dealing with former little master Draco.

He counts it as a definite success, when Master Harry slowly but surely rises out of the self-made tub of snow and gazes at him with more curiosity than fear.

So, because his appeasing effort has been a definite success, “Dobby bes Master Harry’s servant,” he says next, with all the conviction that he can muster, which is _a lot_. He pats at his bare chest when he says his name, and waves at Master Harry when he says Master Harry’s name, to hopefully aid Master Harry further in retrieving Dementor-suppressed memories. Master Harry seems to need it, in his opinion, judging from the panic attack just now. It seems far-fetched that Master Harry has forgotten something as fundamental as his own name after just a year in Askaban, based on the dark whispers Dobby has heard during the last war and its aftermath, but maybe Master Harry is one of the exceptions, as Master Harry is in so many other – _better_ – areas.

Doubt, fear, relief, curiosity and interest rain on Dobby from his master in response to the introduction, just as powerful as Master Harry is, but Dobby bears it stoically. After all, if he can incite curiosity and interest in Master Harry, it means two steps ahead more than before; two steps ahead into Master Harry reclaiming what has been taken from him. Dobby lives and dies to serve Master Harry, anyway, and a bit of discomfort he has to bear during Master Harry’s recovery is _nothing_ compared to what he was made to do while with the Malfoys.

Encouraged with the triple success, Dobby follows up with reiterating his previous offer, just in a much, much more specific and visual way. “Does Master Harry wishes to drinks?” he asks while summoning a glass of chilled water from the kitchen and miming drinking from it.

In answer, the image of the wooden ball that was last with Master Harry’s guest floats across the master-servant link into Dobby’s mind. It is sans the fish that the guest had apparently put into the bowl before Dobby transported all of them from the huge ice thing. It is instead filled with a chunk of ice that is broken down into ice-water with tiny ice chips in it by some watery-feeling magic. – But this ice bed is actually a rug transfigured to resemble the huge ice thing! Master Harry can’t take ice from it! It’ll be bad for Master Harry! Dobby is not good enough with transfiguration to make it permanent! The transfigured rug could hurt Master Harry if it goes back to a rug inside of Master Harry!

So, hastily, to prevent Master Harry from hurting himself by trying to drink from the ice bed, Dobby summons the aforethought wooden bowl from the kitchen and a chunk of ice from the ice box, puts the ice in the bowl, then floats the ice-in-bowl to Master Harry. – Well, this is a strange way to drink for humans. But then again, Master Harry is no longer _just_ a human, is he not? No longer just a “he,” at that, nor a living being of finite years and power….

Hmm. Power. Yes. But it is sadly still just a _potential_ , right now. Master Harry is still too weak and broken from a year in Azkaban, added with days more afterwards being alone without Dobby’s help on that huge ice thing in the middle of the sea. So it is now _Dobby’s_ happy duty to help return Master Harry to what he… or they, at present… should be, including power-wise.

And restoring power firstly needs…, “Woulds Master Harry likes breakfast? Dobby can bring Master Harry some. Fish? Egg? Bacon? Beef? Bread? Potato? Dobby saw fruit trees on the grounds! Woulds Master Harry likes some fruits?”

The proffered bowl, now filled with water with tiny ice grains swimming in it, stops half-way to Master Harry’s lips.

Puzzled, somewhat alarmed, still unknowing, all-too-young pair of glowing red eyes regard Dobby for a long, long, long time.

Dobby fidgets, and fidgets some more. But then, thankfully, Master Harry floats the image of the raw fish that Master Harry has apparently caught back there on the floating ice into Dobby’s mind. This fare is too simple, too demeaning for one such as Master Harry, in Dobby’s opinion, but at least it’s _something_. So he summons the aforethought fish straight from the ice box, and places it on the emptied wooden bowl that Master Harry hesitantly proffers to him. On second thought, he adds a small slab of raw beef to it in hope that Master Harry will eat not just some fish. When Master Harry instinctively scrunches his nose up at the somewhat pungent smell of the meat, Dobby simply replaces it with some raw chicken instead.

Two more raw fish and two more raw chicken afterwards, Master Harry falls straight back into his snow tub, with a faint, disbelieving smile on his face and a bulging belly.

Dobby preens. Success! Now Dobby just has to restock the pantries with Master Harry’s favourites. The shunned food items can be shunted to Master Harry’s guest or bartered away for more fresh fish and fresh chicken. When Master Harry is next awake, maybe Master Harry can try some veal, venison, pork or mutton… or maybe a more exotic meat? Dobby can search for such a meat!

Oh, what a joy! To be able to serve a master again!

Now, Dobby just needs to wait for what Miss Harry Potter’s Guest will do, need, think and ask, to complete _this_ task! There will be other tasks to perform, _too_ , after that. What a joy!

The little, pale-green-skinned servant, ecstatic and excited, bustles about _everywhere_ within the boundaries of the Potter property, which will hopefully be the new Potter home. Left in the master bedroom where the cushiony rug used to be, where an unmelting snow-layered ice islet is, two beings – different from each other as if day and night – sleep undisturbed for a long, long time.

In the dreamscape, the little, blue being, presently contented with life, cavorts merrily in the lap of, all over and around a far larger person of the same species. The said far larger person is seated rigidly in place, shock and suspicion of the sudden dream quickly turning into deep grief, torn and bleeding open anew.

“Loptr? Or… or are you… Loki?” the giant whispers, voice trembling, shaking, raw.

The tiny child stops, perking up, perched on the giant’s knee. The little face, open and curious _but far too old for a little one_ , seems to radiate unconcern about what name the giant would like to call them with.

One huge hand lifts slowly, slowly, slowly, timid and shaking with fear. It engulfs the side of the child’s face with much to spare. A tendral of power quests forth in similar fashion, reaching out to the ball of energy that the little one represents, unseen.

A very, very familiar ball of energy, which radiates determination and righteousness even back then, while still within the womb, tempering the flightiness and creativity of the other, completing the set.

“Loki,” the giant chokes out, at last. “Loki,” they keen, before snatching the child – the _baby_ – up into their arms, against their bosom. They cocoon the latter in flesh and power, and also in the music of heartbeats and breathing and soul-song that the child – ` _Loki. Loki. Loki. My Loki._ ` – used to hear from inside the womb – _their_ womb.

“Loki,” they name the little one, twice in both lifetimes. And the tears flow now in torrents, unheeding of if this is a dream, if this is the afterlife, if this is just an illusion.

“Loki, Loki.” The name means “to break away, to change, a change.” But to the person who carried and birthed the child in so much pain and hope and fear and love, the name simply means “my child, coming out the latter of two from the womb.”

“Loí, Amma is here.” And they are. Whether this is a dream, the afterlife, or just an illusion, the dam is here for their child at last, _and more than willing to be a mother in truth_.

And the little, old child nuzzles their dam’s chest, instinctively searching for comfort and sustenance, sealing the deal.

The both of them remain so for a long, long, long while, it feels. Neither of them speak nor move, contented with each other’s presence.

But, as is the nature of the universe, nothing stays still indefinitely.

“I am… Loki?” the child whispers into the mother’s chest, timidly.

“You are, my love. My Loki, my Loí. Amma missed you so.” The mother pries their child out of their lap, then, only to cuddle the latter snugger and nestle the little head on the crook of their neck to both scent and be scented.

“What happened?” the child breathes, even more timid than before. And indeed, the topic is that fragile, that touchy, and the mother wishes it had never been asked. But _their child_ asks for it, now, and there is very, very little that they would not do for their precious little one.

So they speak, in a shaky voice barely audible even to their ears.

“Amma’s belly was wounded severely by the mace of an enemy during the war.” ` _Týr. That **brainless, savage pig**. – The mace! The mace! It nearly blinded Odaric. It ruined my birth canal. It ruined my womb. And the children were **still** inside!_` “Loí and Loí’s sibling were born half to term, as the result.” ` _So small, but so painful! That passage is never ment for a baby to pass through, let alone **two** of them! And now I cannot even **try** for more children of my own womb._` “Amma was in too much pain.” ` _So very much pain. I do not know how I managed to guide them **both** out of the passage where they were made, instead of where they were supposed to be out from. Oh Ýmir._` “Amma did not know what happened after that.” ` _Too much pain. Too little energy to go on. I never asked how much time – how much **chance** – I lost._` “Amma only knew that both of Amma’s children were no longer there when Amma woke up again.” ` _Helblindi. Býleistr. They meant well, my child, but they killed you, they did, **for love of me**. Helblindi gave you to a savage brute in exchange for my life. That stupid child, too innocent and trusting for their own good. And Býleistr lost your sibling as well. So small, so inadequately covered, left alone in the temple. I do not know where they are now. My Loé. My Loé._`

A pair of small, glowing red eyes meet their much larger counterpart. Those little eyes see too much, know too much for a little child. But they do not judge the mother wrong or wanting, and the mother is grateful, so very grateful.

“What is your name?” the little one ask, then, and the muscles that have tensed in the mother’s body loosen a little. Safe question.

“What is Amma’s name?” the mother corrects gently, while nuzzling into their child’s bushy black hair; so very much like their spouse’s hair. Farbauti; that loving traitor, that cuddly but vicious bear, that harsh but protective quicksnow….

“Amma’s name is Laufey Bergelmir-childe, my love,” they whisper, then, while rocking their child from side to side a little, cherishing and relishing the slight weight in their arms and adoring the shape of the little torso and limbs that are clamped on their body. “Loí’s name is Loki Laufey-childe. Loí’s sibling’s name _is_ Loptr Laufey-childe.” ` _They are still alive! Still **alive** somewhere! Not dead yet!_` “Now, tell Amma what Loí was doing before?” ` _Where am I? Maybe they know? Ineed the distraction anyway._ `

But the distraction backfires on them, badly.

“I ate!” the child exclaims happily. As if they had starved beforehand, or as if they had _never been fed before_.

The mother’s heart squeezes painfully. Their eyes sting with gathering tears – of pain, of horror, of helpless _fury_. ` _’I ate,’ they said!_ `

The hall of the ancestors ought not to be this harsh to a child….

But then, should their child be so _knowing_ if the ancestors had kept them a child after death?

Is this just a dream, then? A cruel, cruel dream….

But if it is a dream….

“Does Loí know where we are?”

The little one looks round, seeming a little startled and curious themself. The mother, too, looks round for the first time after their child jumped on them that long time ago.

There is nothing anywhere but soft snow, layered generously on a bed of deep ice, spanning from horizon to horizon under a dark blue sky filled with strange – if not unfamiliar – stars.

And then the bed of deep ice rocks a little, as if an iceberg caught in intersecting currents.

An iceberg the size of an island, maybe, which could occur along the middle seas on the mother _and child’s_ homeworld, sans the very thick snow….

Before the mother could ponder more on it, however, which is _far better_ than pondering on how tortured their poor, _reborn_ – ` _Oh Ýmir, my loí has been **reborn** in my lifetime! My profuse gratitude, Mother-of-All!_` – child must have been, the faint rocking of the possible iceberg grows more prominent.

Loki – ` _My poor, poor child._ ` – squeaks and tightens their arms and legs as much as they can round their dam’s – ` _Their mother! I am their mother!_ ` – neck and chest. But not even the tiny claws on their fingers and toes can help them not to part with their dam, their – very, very alarmed and frightened mother.

With a last shake and a wail from both mother and child, the dreamscape blurs away.

Laufey Bergelmir-childe finds themself in the palace’s infirmary, _again_ , lying on a bed and being frantically shaken by their close friend and Ýmirheim’s First Regent.

The said First Regent, Angrboða Únraða-childe, the spouse of their late elder sibling Bestla, must dodge their claws and bared teeth a moment after, made savage by their grief.

The grief refreshed, after a millennium, two centuries, ninety-four years and eighteen months.

Angrboða seems to catch on to the reason for the fury, for they say – _calmly_ – while dodging the mauling, “Has Loki been reborn? Where? How can I assist you in finding them?”

Fury appeased, if a little, Laufey shoves the view of the stars in the dreamscape into their mind through mental communication, instead of saying anything. Angrboða yelps in surprise and pain, but in the end settles with just a wounded, reproachful look to their friend, younger spouse-sibling and monarch.

The both of them retire to the palace’s library as soon as they can, to check and recheck and triple check where they think the lost, reborn child might be based on the place in the dreamscape. Of course, only after soothing the concerned palace staff, residents and visitors that the Monarch’s recent collapse in the throneroom was just caused by some overwork that is curable by rest.

And, even after a fortieth check by ten different people, including a couple of astronomers, three interstellar navigators, and also two experienced explorers who have long and often roamed in all the Nine Realms and even beyond since their respective childhoods, the answer is still the same:

Laufey’s lost child – one of the pair – has most likely been reborn far in the north on _Midgard_ , right around this time, on a floating iceberg that has been sanded down into a flat island.

A taskforce is formed, then, to gauge the accurate placement of the child, before the Monarch will approach the said child themself, as is their right and duty as the dam. It consists of one of the astronomers, one of the navigators, both of the explorers, a documenter, a healer, and four warriors who are part of the most elite commando unit in Ýmirheim, in addition to being a group of spouses sharing handfuls of children between them. A plan of action is hammered into shape afterwards, with all the alternatives they can think of also in place to support the mission, before the logistics are procured and secured away for the somewhat uncertain journey.

Laufey gazes on from the side, all the while, wistful and heart aching so, so much.

They – _the mother_ – should have been the one who goes, who searches for _their child_ themself.

But they are _also_ a monarch, _the_ leader of disparate provinces – almost like little monarchies of their own – which do _not_ always get along with each other _and the Crown_ , before _and_ after Asgard has broken them a millennium, two centuries, ninety-four years and eighteen months ago. The civil war that went off nearly at the same time as the unprovoked attack has proven amply of how damaging the lack of attention could be.

Despite the fact that the civil war was _mostly_ contrived at the top, by Laufey’s own _insane_ spouse, who confessed that they did it to _avoid_ throne and territory usurpation _plus Laufey’s death_ by their own dam, a well-known, powerful opposer to the Crown at that time….

_Regardless_ , if Laufey wishes for Ýmirheim to still stand for their children to enjoy and inherit someday, and they _do_ wish so, then they will do best to secure such future from this end, first. There is _still_ a government structure to straighten out, pockets of remaining resistance to weed out, defences to sure up, internal _and external_ economy to fatten up, various damaged places to clean _and_ touch up….

There are so many things to do, and so little time to do them in. But all these effort will be worth – _so, so much_ – the prize at the end.

They can still remember, so vividly, the little torso and spindly limbs glued tightly to their chest, which is _at least_ thrice larger than the said tiny one.

_Priceless_.

The new-old mother watches intently through a scrying ball as the team they have formed navigates the hidden passage from Ýmirheim into the area – nay, the _country_ – that the Midgardians – no, no, _Earthlings_ – call Sweden. The path is the safest that they could find, far from a similar path that connects Midgard and Asgard as could be found in Norway. But still, with how nosy and bloodthirsty Asgard – particularly its “gatekeeper” – is, there is a huge risk laden on this venture. Asgard is _possessive_ towards Midgard, and would like to laud its authority over the Nine Realms – and most likely the universe at large, if they can do it. And the “frost giants” stepping foot on the plannet “ _for the second time_ ” would be considered a great offence indeed. And then, poor, little Loki Laufey-childe would be involved in an interrealm war _again_ , twice in both lifetimes.

Well, maybe, this time, having learnt from the bitter lessons of the past, this desperate, desperate mother can do something to prevent the second war from ever happening….

Meanwhile, mostly oblivious to their monarch’s worry and plotting, the team of ten experts begins to explore Swedish coastline in earnest, in search of their lost, resurrected heir to the throne, half of the pair of twins that should have been with them since centuries ago. The milaðen – the “frost giants,” Asgardians say – have shifted into their “warm-weather forms,” to both blend in with the Midgardian population and survive more ably in the far warmer climate. They have also changed their attires to the approximation of the Midgardian style adopted in nearby towns.

Trying to sift through _all_ the population of babies and little children in this area, however, has proven itself far harder than blending in. There is no hint of adequate chill that could facilitate the forming of an ice plateau anywhere on the land or waters, too, to indicate at where Aðkonnar Loki has been reborn and raised on.

The intel has proven _quite_ inadequate. But nobody dares to speak up, to indirectly _accuse_ the Monarch of giving them nearly useless data.

Nearly useless data, nearly useless plan, nearly useless alternatives….

“We should just try to scry them, as I said before,” Rústla, one of the warriors, mutters grumpily in as the team walks dejectedly and bemusedly along the rocky shore. “A low-grade scrying would at least narrow the approximate location by a handful of degrees, and it would not be detectable by _anyone_.” It is not the first time they speak up about this matter, as they themself acknowledge, and all that they get for it is _still_ the long-suffering sighs from the others, although the navigator concurs with them, _this time_.

“We should get to an elða-null area before doing that, to be safe,” Kilya, one of the explorers, finally offers after another long period of fruitless silence of marching along the coastline. “It is too dangerous on its own, however, in my opinion. I stumbled on one such area once. I would rather not go there deliberately, or even go there by accident, ever again.”

“There is a possibility that the iceberg has moved far from its place of origin,” Eðka, the other explorer, who has not looked up from their maps even once all this while, pipes in absent-mindedly. Meanwhile, they trace a finger along the large sheet of tough paper they are holding, from near the top to somewhere a little further down. Then, they add in a surprised and baffled mutter, as if to themself, “It is possible, also, that there was a lack of temporal synchronicity during the projection between Aslakonnar and Ðolukonnar, between this planet and Ýmirheim, so Aslakonnar may have moved away from the iceberg before it – _aurgh_! Hey!”

They flail about, maps flying everywhere, as Rústla lifts them up by the back of their neck.

“You. Did. Not. Tell. Us. _Before_. _WHY_?” the warrior grinds out as they do so, looking entirely fed up with everything. But, fortunately for Eðka, the other three warriors quickly intervene and separate the two of them, before one of them holds Rústla close from behind and covers the latter’s mouth with their hand.

“Apologies,” Týo, the warrior pinning Rústla against them, say in a deceptively light manner moments after, when the atmosphere no longer threatens to boil over, although still tense. “I suggest that we all take some time to calm down, rest and think. We can discuss _and plan in more detail_ about what we should do and how we should do it, afterwards.”

Eðka sneers to that, although rather half-heartedly, tired out by the boredom and utter confusion that the little contingent has been experiencing, collectively. Bending down to gather their scattered maps from the rocky, somewhat moist ground, they grumble, “A one-liner like you, what do you know of – _aurgh_!!!”

This time, Alrindr the navigator is the one who acts, powerfully swiping a leg across the other’s in an upward swooping motion, so that Eðka falls hard, face-first, on the ground amidst the maps. “Oh, I still have it,” they remark cheerfully, even as one of the remaining warriors ushers them away.

The last warrior helps Eðka up but then restrains them, similarly to how Týo has been restraining Rústla. This uneasy stalemate is what actually enforces Týo’s suggestion. Unable and/or reluctant to proceed with the old plan, now unspokenly but collectively acknowledged as defunct, the contingent makes a camp right where they stand and begins to brainstorm for a new one.

Easier said than done, with many prominent personalities put into the mix, flavoured liberally with prejudices and preconceptions, pressurised by the knowledge that they are attempting to rescue **_the_** _heir to the throne_ , and shaken vigorously by the fact that they know _nearly nothing_ of what Midgard has – _so quickly_ – evolved into, nowadays.

Well, the last part is true for most of the contingent, except for Týo.

They, at length, somewhat reluctantly, admits that they have been here rather much since the last war, especially in the last few decades. They have even _sired a child_ with a Midgardian.

“Let us go to that child’s mother, then, to gather more information about this place,” Rústla, who has been placed as far away as possible from Eðka and not in each other’s line of sight, grumbles sourly, even more reluctantly than their spouse is.

Eðka sneers. “The one-liner is unfaithful to your marriage, are they not? Ha!”

Alrindr pointedly opens communication with their homeworld before the self-made crack in their team’s barely there unity can widen further and swallow them _all_ whole, with this latest jibe. Under half of the team’s displeased glares, they report the failure of the original plan, the team’s brainstorming session, and what the team may do after this, to Laufey.

The Monarch’s blessing for the new plan patches the figurative crack shut, _for now_.

And, in such uneasy air, the team fares forth under their new mission.

Agnes Zabini, mother of half-human, half-other Blaise Zabini and a woman with “magical talents,” receives the ten tense, unsettled strangers in her personal home – her safehouse – in Italy, one overcast afternoon in late September 1996. Bemusement, suspicion and guardedness are projected on her face as warning, instead of a sign of vulnerability.

Týo – they of the many names, her old friend and erstwhile lover, sire of her beloved and only child Blaise Zabini – is the first of the strangers to approach. They then introduces their three spouses to her, before someone else – calling themself “Eðka” – butts in and introduces the rest of the team.

She doesn’t like Eðka. But she doesn’t like the three spouses even more, and Týo themself to an extent, for depriving her Blaise of their sire’s presence, let alone attention.

She doesn’t invite any of them to go past the wardline, consequently. Týo clearly looks uncertain of what to feel about this, but she can care less about it, and boldly shows it in both bearing and facial expression.

Rústla – one of Týo’s spouses, apparently, one of those who caused Blaize to grow up without a father – bulldozes over them both, anyway. They succinctly explain the team’s “purpose” of invading her life, namely trying to adjust to the “modern Midgard” and especially its magic-wielding communities. They tag an apology at the end… rather half-heartedly.

Yet another score _against_ them, then.

She raises an unimpressed, speaking eyebrow; to Rústla’s bluntness, to the explanation, to Týo’s continued discomfort _and silence_ , and to the cracks visible in how the team members hold themselves in separate groups – all, neither, she doesn’t care, herself.

But she says _yes_ to helping them.

Because she can exploit this, oh she can, _very well_. Blaise – her darling, her only – will get what they have been pining for since they were old enough to notice, and she will get what she wants, as well.

What she wants; that, will be determined later. She can afford this. She can extend their stay, one way or another.

The team braves the nearby magical enclaves and gathering places to learn first-hand of some of the changes “Midgard” has undergone, under her brief instructions and briefer guidance. They venture without her to the non-magical world, next, to do the same.

And, for once, after a week, they agree _in unison_ that they _severely need_ a dedicated guide and consultant, which she has blatantly refused to be, if not in stated words.

Interestingly, although she knows very well that Týo can navigate earth _perfectly well_ , the latter hasn’t put themself forward for the position, either. In fact, Týo is the one who puts the idea forward to her, at the end of the week.

“I will ask Blaise,” she says at last, _only_ after three days of thought, in which she analyses all the motives that Týo might have in stalling – and perhaps also sabotaging – their own people. “But you had better treat them well, or you will face them _and_ me.”

“Blaise?” Rústla makes a confused noise. “What could a baby tell us? Or do to us?”

“Baby?” It is Agnes’ turn to make a confused noise; half acting, half genuine, and trying not to laugh. “No, my Blaise is an adolescent, not a baby. But no, I shan’t tell you what we can do. It would be telling, wouldn’t it?” She daren’t look at Týo as she speaks, or try to reach them mind to mind. Now she is truly sure that they have something in mind, since they know _perfectly well_ that Blaise is approaching sixteen years old by now; and, for an only _half_ -other, sixteen years of age still counts as adolescence.

Truth be told, she is growing excited for what Týo might have in store for _their own people_.

Some of the strangers look unnerved, or at least discomfited, in the wake of her words. Smart.

But not smart enough to reject her offer, to avoid what she _and_ Týo have planned for them.

“I want a magical contract and a vow from each of you, before I allow Blaise to be anywhere close to you,” she demands, hoping that her plan and Týo’s are still synchronised even with this addition thrown in.

“A contract,” Eðka haggles. As she has predicted, as she has wanted. Better yet, Týo speaks not a peep, and still looks all serene and dignified, even regal, although they are standing at the fringes of the fracturing group.

“A _magical_ contract,” she says, insists.

Unfortunately, Neuolvir, one of Týo’s spouses other than Rústla, figuratively jumps in before Eðka could bind them all into a contract with her and Blaise. “We are not authorised to bind ourselves into an agreement with anybody without the spoken and written approval of our highest superior.”

Highest superior. This is the first time she hears of such a personage. Týo has always been liberal with the revelations of who they were at any point of time within earth’s history. And they have _indeed_ contributed much to earth’s history, the knowledge of which could have led to many, many, many problems for them if she were inclined to ruin them this way. But they have _never_ even hinted at the presence of such entity, even though they have once talked about their three spouses.

A secret, protected by a whole churning ocean of secrets.

Agnes Zabini has been masterfully played.

She concedes this round, in this game that she _never_ knew that they were playing. But no more, no more. Agnes Zabini is going to win the next – and hopefully _last_ – round.

Týo Týé-childe hasn’t been _playing with_ her. They have only been _playing_ her. And Agnes Zabini is _nobody’s_ toy.

Well, but, unfortunately, before she can say or do anything, Blaise’ raven alights on Týo’s outstretched arm, _carrying a letter on its beak_. Worse, before she can rest the letter from it, _both_ Týo and the letter-bearing raven have vanished into thin air, with a mere ` _We will be able to converse privately soon enough, I hope,_ ` tossed into her mind as parting words.

And _worst_ , before she can attach a tracking spell to either Týo’s path or any of the other _creatures_ , the latters vanish _at once_. They don’t leave any trace to track with, either, she finds when she checks. They have left no personal article or any kind of shedding, too. It’s as if they had never been here in the first place!

She has to resort to writing a quick note to Blaise and hoping that the note reaches the child first, without any expectation that this effort will bear fruit.

Fortunately for the temper of one Agnes Zabini, she puts no hope in it. Because one Blaise Zabini does receive the subject of the letter before they do the letter itself. And, fortunately for the newly seventeen-year-old, who thought to celebrate their own coming-of-age – according to the culture of the magicals here – by sending a letter to their absent sire, with hope that the said sire would show up for once, the said sire – _plus a contingent of nine_ – arrives in a secluded corner by the shore of the school’s lake, instead of somewhere much more compromising.

“Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” the half-human, half-milaða teenager huff sarcastically, very much displeased with the additions not requested in their letter, before dragging their father – their abý – away for the picnic that they have planned, for _just_ the two of them.

But apparently the tagalongs are too dense, or too inconsiderate, or too tenacious, or all three, because they _still_ follow, even after Blaise bluntly shoos them away.

“This is _just_ for me and my father, you know,” they snap, at last, as bluntly and sternly as they can make it. “You can have them _after_ that, but not _before_. Meet us here two hours hence. Now let us be!”

“And they are _our_ spouse,” one of the tagalongs points out with greater asperity.

Before the situation can degenerate further, yet another tagalong puts in, “We were urgently searching for a missing child. Your sire is not yet free to do what they wish, by the decree of the Crown. Help us, and we might be able to plead your case to Their Majesty, so that you might spend some time with your sire as reward of your assistance.”

Blaise’ heart _burns_ , like rarely before.

They have spent so little time with whom their mother once mentioned as “a complex and complicated person, but solidly loving to their family” in all their life. And now they must _beg_ an unknown monarch somewhere – definitely _not_ their monarch – just to spend time with _their own father_?!

They got caught in a bear hug by the said father, though, before they could voice a loud, emphatic “NO!”

` _The monarch is a grieving mother, Little Snakeling,_ ` comes Týo Týé-childe’s soft whisper in their mind. Empathic grief shared with the unknown entity mingles with their own warm regard, unrestrained affection and fierce protectiveness _towards Blaise_ in all the words said and unsaid. ` _They lost their first and only children at the end of the war. One of the children is alive but still lost to us, while the other died gruesomely… and apparently reborn just some time ago. If Abý could have a similar chance…._ `

Blaise swallows, and burrows deeper into their abý’s arms, as they so rarely could do.

` _Children,_ ` they think privately, briefly shielding their inner mind from the mental communication as their abý taught them when the sire and child firstly met, back in their first year at school. ` _Abý lost a couple of children, too, didn’t they, at the end of that war? And they didn’t get to see me till I was at Hogwarts. They seemed so happy, when we at last met that time. If they could get their womb-children back, I bet they’d be even happier._ `

They swallow again.

For an absentee father, Týo Týé-childe has never been lacking in unrestrained and genuine affection towards Blaise, also faithful attention, in the few times they could see each other throughout Blaise’s short life. They have never failed to gift Blaise with skills, trinkets and useful items, either.

In fact, if Týo Týé-childe could raise their child – _this_ child – together with Agnes Zabini from the beginning, it is almost a certainty that one Blaise Zabini wouldn’t have known what to do with the excess affection, attention and gifts from the both of them.

So in return, even with the reality such as it is, Blaise would have sacrificed _much_ for their abý’s happiness. Including the – _so, so rare_ – chance for the two of them to share some company with each other.

And, with that sad, sad decision reached, Blaise, still very much torn but more understanding, returns the bear hug for a long moment, anchoring themself in the certainty of their abý’s presence and love _towards them_.

` _Will Abý be long?_ ` they can’t help ask; in a more plaintive and vulnerable tone than they would have taken in other times and under other circumstances, at that. But their abý has never sought to take advantage of their vulnerability, anyway. And, judging from the reciprocal feeling of openness and helplessness that they receive now, their abý isn’t about to take advantage of them, either.

` _Abý does not know, Little Snakeling,_ ` comes the reply, after a long pause. ` _There has been so little information available, and it might have even expired by the time Abý and friends arrived here. But it could not be helped. And the longer we linger, the harder it will be to track down the child. They were in an uncertain location and circumstance, when the Monarch got a glimpse of them, and Abý and friends are worried that the situation may have gone worse since then. They are still so small, and the Monarch reported that they may have been starved._ `

Blaise’ heart twinges. The burn of anger and jealousy has subsided into a low simmer, and now, quite against their wish, they sympathise with _yet another_ unknown entity. An entity that seeks to separate them from their father, no less, however indirectly.

“What’s the child like?” they speak aloud, in the end. “How old? Where were they last?”

And with that, they semi-willingly embroil themself in the mission to find a missing heir to the throne of a realm they have never visited even in part, for the prize of warm regard – and perhaps, pride – of a sorely missed parent.

But soon enough, with the new magics and knowledge thrown in, they help the beleaguered team _willingly_.

It is not an easy feat to achieve, with schooling for an important and busy year already on the way. Worse, there is a real, real threat of a powerful magical madman slaughtering, subduing, torturing and destroying people left and right, whose operations are not constrained only to the larger British magical community, but also _within the school itself_ , especially in the set of dorms they belong to – the House of Slytherin, the House of the cunning, resourceful and ambitious. Blaise does not belong to the House for nothing, though. Cunningness, resourcefulness and ambition are traits that they _and their abý_ pride on and use the most, often to great effect.

It also helps, greatly, that, after the rocky initial contact, the team allows the sire and child certain times to be just with each other, although Blaise can see that it costs the three spouses much, emotionally.

But what helps the most is that, after three days, they meet the Monarch for the first time ever.

The audience is conducted through a long-ranged face-to-face communication devise, which is some sort of intangible screen projected on the wall of the team’s hidden, temporary base deep in the dangerous, magical forest that surrounds the school grounds – the Forbidden Forest, its _un_ original name is. But Blaise doesn’t bother about the technology, which they see for the first time as well just now, although they do make a note to drill either their abý or the others in the team about it after this.

No, they pay the most attention on the fact that, _at last_ , they got to meet the person who sent the team _which includes their abý_ here, who indirectly gave them their abý back and took the latter away at the same time.

They openly scrutinise the blue-skinned, white-marked, red-eyed, bald, grim-looking being whose image is projected on the wall for a long, long moment, and so does the said being, in return.

And then the Monarch – _the mother of the missing child_ – intones gravely, “Well-met, Blaise Agnes-childe. I as a mother and we as a nation would like to extend our gratitude for all the efforts that you have exerted to assist us to find our heir.”

Blaise shrugs to that; generating palpable unease and even some offence from the team arrayed behind them, to their secret thrill.

“It has not resulted in anything yet,” they demur. “There are millions of babies born daily, I am sure, and there are tens of millions of children who are alive today, world-wide. Even if we manage to pinpoint a specific area, and only in magical communities, the number is still big.”

The Monarch’s countenance becomes even grimmer, if it were at all possible. But Blaise is sure that the look is not directed at them.

And, a moment after, his confidence is confirmed.

“My child contacted me in another… dream. They were yet unsure of who they are in this life. They have… lost their memories, most of their memories, and they are afraid of attempting to retrieve those memories. However, they relayed to me their new caretaker’s strong belief that they bear the name Harry Potter in this life.”

It is the grieving, anxious mother who speaks, instead of the monarch of a realm, and Blaise finds it far easier to relate to this version of the same person.

It’s not easy, still, to swallow the new piece of information that the said mother has just delivered.

` _Harry Potter!_ `

Blood rushes away from Blaise’ face, and doesn’t seem about to return any time soon.

` _No wonder the child lost their – his? – memories and fears regaining them…._ `

Harry Potter used to be a boy in Blaise’ year, who belonged to another set of dorms – the House of Gryffindor, the House for the bold, brave and chivalrous. Through a fast and furious – and false, Blaise suspects – trial, he was convicted of the murder of Cedric Diggory at the end of the Triwizard Tournament – a barbaric tournament, for sure, in Blaise’ opinion – near the end of their shared fourth year. And from then on he occupied a highest-security cell in the Prison of Azkaban.

Which had the most concentration of the soul-sucking, happiness-leeching Dementors.

Of which he was severely allergic to, if the rumours flying at the start of their shared third year were correct.

And he was there for _life_.

Only, it was a short, short life.

Voldemort, the Dark Lord, the magical madman intent on wrecking everything that is good in Great Britain or maybe even Europe or the world, stormed Azkaban just a couple of months ago. But he didn’t just free his incarcerated followers.

No, he did not.

He also visited Cel 13. Which contained Harry Potter. Who no longer looked like Harry Potter anymore with how pitiful the rag-clad lump of half-dead flesh appeared.

And then he sent a Killing Curse to the poor boy. Just so. Easier than killing some lifestock for a meal.

And then he had his minions dump the body in a rickety boat moored to the equally ricketty pier at one edge of the prison-island.

And then the boat was loosed. Never to be seen again.

And there went the last scion of the Houses Potter _and_ Black. Because, not long before that, Sirius Black the fugitive was seen publicly duelling to the death with the ex-dead Peter Pettygrew, and both ended up dead.

There also went any illusion of stability and peace that this community stubbornly maintained.

Because one of the Dark Lord’s well-placed minions in the Wizengamot – British magical community’s legal-and-judicial body – managed to sneak a Court Pensive – a memory-playing devise, which can project a memory away from the devise to be viewed comfortably by multiple people – and played the whole sordid event of Harry Potter’s demise in the midst of a public session.

And then the Court Pensive somehow made its way to Diagon Alley during the last-minute Hogwarts-supplies shopping spree.

And then to Hogsmead Village in the midst of a market day.

And then to Hogwarts during the welcoming feast of the new academic year.

The governing body of the community toppled, just so.

They jailed an innocent child in the most heinous place imaginable, and left him to die as fish fodder in a desolate sea somewhere on earth.

And now, Blaise has to tell _all this_ to someone – a _very, very powerful_ someone – who claimed that _Harry Potter_ is _still alive_ and _their child_.

They flee the room and throw up in the toilet.

But they end up telling the people that are still gathered in the room, all the same.

And with that, British magical community is once more shaken and invaded, this time by an outside force… who has a toehold inside, anyway, by way of an absent but beloved icon of a child.

Harry Potter, who is also Loki Laufey-childe, is the banner under which the milaðen – the jötnar, the frost giants, the Children of Ýmir – obliterate Voldemort and his forces, also quite a few other people and things that caused the child’s loss of life – _temporary_ loss of life. All in a silent but inexorable tide of death and destruction. As sudden and devastating as a flash flood but as silent as a deep, obstructionless river.

Meanwhile, the bannerised child… himself?… well, _themself_ , rather, this time and perhaps from now on, as genders seem to become meaningless the more they experience and find out, obliviously explores the warm-weathered, mostly dry sanctuary that their new, self-assigned caretaker has brought them and their uninvited guest to. It is a rather alien environment, to them, but at the same time rather familiar, although, based on the bits of memories that they have, they have never been in a building possessing grounds this expansive and varied.

Now in their other, equally small form that is more tolerant of hot weathers, they acquaint themself with every nook and cranny of the grounds, from the flat and hilly lawns to the flower patches to the vegetable gardens. The red-haired, green-eyed woman who came with them here prefers the inside of the building, and they don’t mind about it.

They can’t stand being in a building for long. Not after what they _know_ they suffered somewhere far colder, far darker, far dirtier, far more horrible than even their desolate chunk of ice in the middle of the sea.

They never tell their mother – their amma – about _that place_ , though. And they did manage to visit the said mother again, just yesterday, through another semi-intentional lucid dream. Their amma seemed overly curious of past details that they deemed irrelevant, but they told the latter, anyway.

They just didn’t tell their amma more than what was asked. Their amma – Laufey Bergelmir-childe, Monarch of Ýmirheim – was already upset enough.

They never speak to the woman who came with them here, let alone tell her anything, but it’s a different thing entirely, isn’t it? They have no ties to her, after all, and, for one whose past memories are spotty at best, they don’t forget how she barged into their life.

And, thinking about her, there she comes, jogging up the little grassy, flowery hill the top of which they love to settle on to look at the surrounding grounds.

“Hello,” she greets them, subdued but warm enough, like a harmless – even kind – stranger when meeting someone for the first time, when she crests the hill. And indeed, it is her first word since the two of them… met… in what feels like an eternity ago.

The child looks into her eyes and hums noncommittally.

Deep beneath the surface of those eyes, they can see calculation, desperation and even fear. The calculation, they don’t like, as it reminds them unpleasantly of a few people they grew up amongst, which are bleak shadows in the depths of their memory by now. But the desperation and fear….

“May I sit here?” She motions to a spot next to them.

They hum in agreement, this time. And she seems to understand it, for she does as she said and immediately half turns away from them, as if quite fascinated by the view and deeming her viewing companion harmless.

But the child notices that she regards them from the corner of her eye.

It is all an act.

It’s unpleasant, really. The child wishes that Luna Lovegood were here, instead of this woman. Luna Lovegood and her tales and her warmth and her curiosity and her _honesty_. All these false niceties make them pretty jittery and unsafe.

In fact, if their new, invisible, encompassing friends hadn’t assured them that the woman could be neutralised in one way or another should she mean them harm in any manner, they would have fled this place, however nice it’s been to them otherwise.

They daren’t confront the woman outright, though. It’s been rooted deep in their psyche that such confrontation would end up very, very, very badly for them, instead of for the woman.

But, if they cannot confront her directly, there is still the indirect means to do so. They learnt it in their forgotten past, the lessons of which still cling to them although the memories are mostly gone, leaving only shadows.

So they sing, ostensibly to themself: soft, wordless melodies of comfort, home, safety, contentment, peace and belonging. The song of a sated and secure child, a _whole_ child whom they never were. A song that they would dearly like to sing to their amma, to show their appreciation of a mother’s care – all that the latter has been able to show them thus far in the little time the both of them were together.

When they resurface from their song-land, they find that Dobby – their self-styled caretaker – is there, alongside so many other of its – his? – kind, all seated quietly and looking peacefully at them.

And the pretending woman is lying sprawled beside them, no longer sitting, and no longer awake either.

They have never seen such a blissful, open look on her face, however, awake or not.

She is safe, nonetheless, at present. Safe for them, and safe for herself.

“Please,” they whisper to Dobby, then motion hesitantly at the slumbering woman.

He gets up and bows low, before both he and the woman vanish with a soft popping sound.

As if the departure were a signal, or Dobby’s obeisance a clue, the other beings of his kind also get up and bow low. The collective gathering straightens up only when the bewildered and cautious child makes a little noise, half afraid to show their discomfiture in any way, even before these harmless-looking, harmless-feeling beings.

They feel a link to each in the gathering, just as they do with Dobby and even this marvellous plot of land, and just as they did with their ice-island. But such link offers little information, only comfort and assurance of home and safety.

They dearly wish to _know_ , but such desire has been stamped out of them a long time ago. So they just… wait.

And, thankfully, their patience is rewarded.

One of the small beings steps forward a little, just enough to distinguish… herself?… from the gathering, and then dips low until she is kneeling on the ground, with her odd towel-skirt pooling round her on the grass. “Master Harry, sir,” she squeaks uncertainly in a quivering voice. “This is Nida, chief elf of Potter household. Nida speak for all Potter elves: We are so happy that Master Harry is back with us. Please bring us along when Master Harry goes away. There are no other Potters to be with, and we are scared.”

“Go away?” the child whispers, just as uncertainly. “Where?”

“Master Harry’s other mother is searching,” Nida says in a more confident tone, although she is still kneeling on the grass and looking down. “British Ministry is gone. Master Harry’s other mother cleaned it up. Master Harry’s other mother wants Master Harry back. Master Harry’s other mother was angry with British Ministry and many others for Master Harry. Master Harry should come home, but we cannot live without Master Harry.”

“Home,” the child murmurs quietly, reverently. “Mother.” They stir, fire igniting in their chest.

“I want to go home,” they whisper at last, daring themself to say it, daring others to beat them for it.

But Nida just bows low, till her stubby nose touches the grass, and the other “Potter elves” mimic her. “As Master Harry wishes,” the elves chorus, and the child feels something heady bursting out from the steady warmth now nestled in their chest.

Hope.

And, just so, the child finds themself and their new entourage in a huge hall in a huger building that is vaguely familiar to them, which sends mixed signals from the shadows of their memories.

The hall is far too empty of people and furniture, those remnants say, whisper into their ears. The air is too empty as well, too tense, though thick with power, thicker than before.

The power feels a little like their amma. ` _But where is Amma?_ `

They reach out, though not physically; wandering, questing, searching, hoping to find a few invisible people here who are happy to help them, like whom they found in the previous place, who even _promised to protect them_ from _anyone_.

And they find someone, indeed: an entity older than any of the ones found in the previous place or all of those put together, composed of old layers stacked and woven and interlocked and mashed into one. This one is a little ungainly, though, as if lots of people being pressed into one and trying to act as one, instead of the layers acting in concert to form unity. No wonder, soon after contact, this entity begs the child to help straighten themself out.

` _Can I do it?_ ` they wonder.

` _You have the gift,_ ` the invisible someone encourages. ` _Do not fret. Relax and just do it. It is an intuitive procedure. I give you permission to change me, as long as you do not change my escence._ `

So they relax, and open their mind further, and let themself explore the entity as permited.

` _I knew you,_ ` they realise, surprised and sad, on completing the exploration. The invisible entity is _familiar_.

` _You did,_ ` the invisible entity agrees, just as sad. ` _You were not truly aware of me, but you did. You considered me home._ `

` _Oh._ ` The child feels guilty, now. ` _I am sorry._ ` And they mean it. ` _My home is my mother._ `

` _As it should be,_ ` the invisible entity agrees again. ` _Your mother is even here, but I begged them not to approach you yet. Their power might interfere. But I shall tell them to come, if you wish to postpone or cancel this. You never promised me your help, after all, so you are not bound to do so._ `

` _No, I want to help,_ ` the child insists. ` _Amma, after that?_ `

They explore again, one more time, on receiving the invisible entity’s affirmation and gratitude. They begin to straighten up various parts of the entity, afterwards, and fuse the corrected layers together, little by little, until a whole person stands before their mind’s eye, older than any of the ones found in the previous place or all of those put together.

` _Greetings,_ ` the person says, and smiles, and bows. ` _Hogwarts, at your service, my liege._ ` And the person means it, the child _knows_.

` _I am liege of nobody. May we be friends instead?_ ` they demur.

And, in lieu of spoken answer, as “spoken” as a wordless mental communication is, the person – Hogwarts – embraces them tight and warmly.

` _Welcome home, Harry James Potter, also Loki Laufey-childe,_ ` Hogwarts says, and the child indeed finds themself _also_ hugged by their amma, both in the physical plain and beyond.

They are home indeed, and free to call it thus, and maybe even free to do _more_ than that.


End file.
